


At the Root of Yggdrasil

by Guardian_Kysra



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, beware! weird shit ahead, lots of dreams and nightmares, the Sandman may make a cameo at some point, this is a big maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 56,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9484805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Kysra/pseuds/Guardian_Kysra
Summary: One beautiful Thursday afternoon, Darcy Lewis collapses into a coma for no apparent reason.  Jane is beside herself with misplaced guilt, Thor has taken off to Asgard to investigate the source of Darcy's malaise, and the rest of the Avengers are doing everything they can to figure out what is going on.  Meanwhile, Darcy finds herself very far from home with very limited means of getting back.





	1. The Cleaving

**Author's Note:**

> I've been planning this for awhile. I'm still working on Ghost in the Photograph, but this would not be denied. I have extremely detailed, vivid nightmares often and I will be using them as raw material here. They're not the focus of the story but they offer some explanations of what's going on with Darcy.

Contrary to what Darcy (and practically anyone who has ever met Jane Foster) had predicted, the great incident doesn't happen with an alarm, a beep, a buzzing, a meltdown, an explosion, or anything of the sort. In fact, when it does happen (and it totally does), it does so quietly without warning on a Thursday afternoon (Arthur Dent, the asshole, was right, couldn't get the hang of Thursdays). The weather outside is warm, breezy, and clear beyond the tinted windows, tempting her with the prospect of a walk, maybe a sit down to have a nice, leisurely read in Central Park while the sun is still hanging sedately in the sky (mocking her, as it were, considering what happens before she even gets to entertain the actuality of _leaving the building_ ).

The Avengers have just returned from God-only-knows what mission (her security clearance is high but not that high), the sum of her knowledge being that Thor was gone for over a month and has returned with nary a hair out of place and Mjolnir still looking spiffy and freshly spit-shined (he totally does it, she's been a witness to that carnage). Jane is wracking up major wakeful-for-SCIENCE points and about to reach a high score on the Darcy-patience-and-sleepy-time-meter (the littlest scientist keeps saying "one more control run" while Darcy says "not until you've had a full REM cycle"). 

And it happens. Not with a flash of light or a laser shot from nowhere. Not with a whisper or a bang or even a whimper. There's no wormhole tearing up the space-time continuum, no vacuum or sickness or anything out of the ordinary. Darcy is simply slipping on her shoes (her lab slippers are the comfiest of bunny slippers and totally in style with the surrounding high tech motif . . . and it drives Tony BONKERS), glitter-green pumps that make her jegging clad legs look twice as long (even if they only raise her to the whopping height of 5'4), then grabbing up her purse (a tote bag really, purses cannot possibly support the virtual library she hauls around because one should never be without a good book to read). She smooths and fluffs her hair a bit (there are superheroes underfoot afterall and she's very single, thank you very much), and makes her way to 1. accost Jane and strong arm the mischievous science!elf to the nearest bed; 2. give Thor instructions on the proper feeding and care of one Jane Foster; and 3. take that walk before the sun goes down or the weather decides to fuck her over - whichever comes first. 

But what comes first isn't a fight with Janie, isn't a sidebar with Thor or bad weather. It's not a lab accident either. All Darcy knows is that one second, she's reaching out to touch Jane's shoulder, and the next she hears Thor's booming voice, calling her - sounding farther and farther away. She startles, for just a moment, turns to look at him and sees his face, anguished in a way that makes her stomach twist painfully and then everything is shadows and night (but isn't it only like 3:30?) and voices, so many voices then silence. Silence. 

And nothing. 

.....

Like a television consciousness snaps on as if someone had pushed a button off then clicked it back on. For a bare second Darcy remembers everything but hasn't yet received a picture and then she is bombarded, traveling as if sprung like a rocket, hurtling through space and time - through stars and planets and black matter, squirreling through black holes as she is crushed and ripped apart and then put back together - badly - on the other side. There's a litany of numbers and mathematical jargon floating behind her eyes, into her ears and out a mouth not hers. 

The channel changes. Now she is running alongside an army of armored warriors, hacking the enemy to bits and bathed in blood and brain matter. She can smell the victory that is promised, taste the sweat and blood and triumph that is theirs. She doesn't flinch when a sword glances off her horned helmet, doesn't stop when she is stabbed in her side, doesn't scream when she suddenly sees her headless body gushing red from her headless neck. 

A blink. She's standing in the midst of a nuclear winter, bones littering the ground and crunching into dust as she walks and witnesses in horror. She doesn't want to be here and even though she can hear someone crying, she feels no wetness on her cheeks. There is a light on the horizon and she runs through the dust storm to find someone, anyone to tell her where she is, what's going on, what the fuck just happened? And why? Why? Why? (How do I get back home?) When she finds the light, she vomits on herself, ruining the new sweater she finished knitting a week ago. It's done in red and gold yarn, a small homage to her kinda-sorta-not-really boss who now lays at her feet, arc reactor still alight, heart still beating inside the suit where no other flesh dwells. 

Darcy screams but doesn't wake up. 

......

Meanwhile, at Stark-now-Avengers Tower, Jane is no longer doing science, nor sleeping nor eating. She is shaking so badly she can't roll a collapsed Darcy over to her back, can't scream for help even though Thor is there at her elbow, bellowing for a healer as the other Avengers gather around her friend and assistant, a cacophony of noise and heat and movement --- she doesn't know what's happening, what happened, why Darcy is laying there still as death and pale as bone but still breathing. Good God, thank you! Still breathing. 

Thor is crying. She can hear the quiet manly rumble of pain, feel it vibrating through is body through her arm as she presses, just a little, just enough, against him for grounding. Captain America does what she can’t, turning Darcy over gently, oh so gently and slowly. Jane’s hands tangle in the long dark brown strands of hair covering the pale, pale, so so pale face (dear God, I know I haven’t believed in you for a long time, but I will do whatever, give up coffee and poptarts, even science . . . I’ll only do science like 18 hours a day, 16 okay, if you just let her wake up and stop being so pale). 

The Black Widow . . . Romanov . . . Natasha, she is taking Darcy’s vitals, peeling back waxy-looking eyelids and pressing fingers to a still throat, to the shallow chest. Barton . . . Hawkeye . . . Clint, he eases Darcy’s clenched hands into a more relaxed position while an unusually subdued Tony sets her things (the tote, the books, carefully removing the sparkly green shoes) aside with care; and it feels like something has torn apart inside Jane, something necessary and warm. She doesn’t register the tears on her cheeks until Bruce’s arm wraps about her cold shoulders and she bends over her friend in sobs.

……

The channels are infinite like cable and satellite combined when all she wants is the comfort of choice or Netflix. She visits a void of glowing green where a behemoth stomps around, red and screaming with rage. There’s a sprawling circus that seems immortal, unchanging but still she alone grows old, the music and sounds muted and garbled as she nervously edges along the tight rope with light blinding her eyes. 

She is so confused like Alice in Wonderland without the questionable life choices and recreational drug use; and a very large part of her that is only twenty-three, knows she has so much more to learn, understands that Thor opened up her world to some freaky shit but she-still-needs-her-parents-damn-it wishes over and over again, _I want my mom I want my mom Iwantmymomiwantmom._

“I want to go home.” It’s a weary, dry whisper and comes from the deepest part of her gut. 

The blackness comes once more then, fully and completely peaceful like a natural pool, a hot spring, or (she can hear the ebb and flow of waves crashing into shore) the ocean. She stands waist deep in it and doesn’t notice if she’s naked or clothed. It’s soothing to be here wherever here is. There is no land in sight, just a dark starless sky and equally dark water in all directions.

She stays there, letting the sound of waves lull her anxieties, relishing the coolness of the water, the rhythmic rolling hush and break of the tide – out and in, out and in, out, in, out, in, outinoutinoutin. Her breath evens out with it, mirrors the pattern, until she lowers to sit in the surf and cries.

……

A medic is examining Darcy. There is no outward sign of distress, no visual reason for her state of unconsciousness. A CAT scan and MRI show nothing out of the ordinary. Bloodwork offers no explanation. For all intents and purposes Darcy Lewis is in good health despite a sudden case of narcolepsy (Tony attempts to make a joke about Snow White or Sleeping Beauty and kissing but Pepper nips that in the bud with a well placed stiletto).

It is Jane who calls Darcy’s family. Jane who tells Mrs. Lewis that her daughter is in a coma for no good reason that anyone can see but _we’re doing everything we can, of course we are; and Tony Stark has called in Dr. Helen Cho, his own medical team, the best of the best. They’ll figure this out and Darcy will be kicking ass and taking names again in no time._

She doesn’t say that Thor is devastated beyond her understanding. Doesn’t tell the Lewises that the god-on-earth has mentioned needing to see his brother, talk to the Aesir and Asyjur, consult the auguries. She can’t. Loki has already reaped enough pain in all of their lives, she won’t add to an already worrying situation. 

When she gets off the phone, after assuring them again that they are doing all they can and _of course, you can come (Tony is having the guest suites prepared as we speak) and see her, stay as long as you like_ , Captain America . . . Captain Rogers . . . _no_ , Steve approaches to offer his help. 

“What do you need?”

Jane looks up at him with wet eyes and a tremulous smile. It feels like guilt. “I need a hug.” They aren’t close, but she trusts him, Thor trusts him, Darcy is in crush with him. It’s enough of a recommendation.

He obliges, but it doesn’t help. Darcy doesn’t wake up to curse her for getting wrapped up in the biceps-of-freedom first. 

“I also need a shower.”

A strong hand pats her back, steady. Sure. She wishes she were so sure. He offers to stay with Darcy until Jane gets a shower, packs a few things. It’s not even a question if she’ll spend the night. 

Jane leaves Darcy in the Captain’s care as she does everything freely that Darcy usually has to yell, cajole, and extort to get her to do. She smiles wryly at her tired reflection, wonders what Darcy is dreaming about, then makes her way back to Darcy’s little room in the med ward. 

When she crosses the threshold, she finds the good Captain asleep sitting up while Darcy lies still and silent, one hand reaching out toward him across the bed.


	2. Out of the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy finds out nowhere is safe. Jane (and everyone else) is despondent. Thor makes a vow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last set up chapter and I revealed something I thought would come out later but Thor was insistent that it needed to be now. Next chapter will be more sedate as Darcy finds herself in a more stable situation but no less stressful and definitely no closer to home.

Darcy doesn’t know how long she sits in the dark ocean. It feels like days and minutes and years and eons all at once and not at all. Her skin never gets pruny and her hair is dry as soon as she lifts her head from the water.

The sky never lights up with the sun, never hints at a moon. There is only her and the waves. 

She tries not to think that this is what death might be like. Because she doesn’t _feel_ dead (and isn’t that just the precise indicator of being alive?), and she remembers life before . . . this. Bending her knees, she hugs herself, rests her chin upon cold kneecaps. She doesn’t want to move from the water, afraid she’ll be dragged into crazy again. It’s nice here. Quiet. Steady. It feels safe, but she knows, she needs to get home and she doesn’t even know how she got here.

The uncertainty is crushing like an avalanche burying her in cold doubt she has no tools to dig herself out of.

“What do I do now?”

“Hello?” The answering voice sounds far away and close by. It’s deep and male and she wants to wrap herself up in the sound because she’s not alone here in the dark water that does not splash when she rises to her feet, sand squishing between her toes.

“Hello! Hi! Please . . . Can you help me?” The desperation creeps into her voice till she can hear it, hate it. She’s a grown-ass woman, for cripes’ sake. She’s independent and strong and . . . . _she can’t deny it_ . . . 

Lost.

“Hello?” Is someone out there?” The timbre and tone are so inviting, like that feeling she used to get when she fell asleep listening to her father’s voice, her ear pressed against his chest as he read the newspaper aloud or his latest book interest. 

And she wonders if it’s _too_ inviting, if this whole mind trip is the invention of an unfriendly. After all, Loki had been beautiful but seriously cray and diabolical and genocidal and the dark elves, those bastards had been beautiful and cold and calculated and . . . every fucking Shield agent cum Hydra had also been talented at gaining trust and look where it nearly got the world, so . . . Maybe Jane was the target. Maybe she was right where they wanted her. Maybe she was better off with the changing channels where she was at least moving so fast and through such a chaptered freak show she’d be hard to find (she doesn’t want to think about how hard it will be for Jane and the Avengers to find her . . . if they’re looking at all – what if this is just a really long, really horrible nightmare and the entire day was all in her head and she hasn’t even started Thursday yet?). 

Maybe this was all getting to her because she’s usually very decisive and now she doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’tknowhowcaniknowwhennothingisfamilar?

Words grow too large for her throat, stall there like some oversized bite of food cutting off her airway. One foot steps back involuntarily as she tries to draw breath and gags, hands at her neck, ears straining for more of the voice if only to feel less alone; but her foot doesn’t meet shore or anything solid and she slips down, down, down, down under the water that is so black it is somehow colorless. 

Her mouth is open in a silent, terrified scream as she reaches up (is it up? Where is down? She doesn’tknowanything), kicks her feet, attempts to breathe in the black fluid gliding around her writhing body, into her mouth and lungs as the knowledge hits.

_I’m going to drown._

And she does.

…..

Darcy has been asleep for fifteen endless, blurring days . . . at least, Jane thinks it’s been fifteen. It might have been six or thirty or a hundred or one. She’s not sure anymore because she hasn’t been able to sleep even when Mr. or Mrs. Lewis take the night, even when there is an Avenger guarding the door. Even when Thor returns and tries to sex her into exhaustion when nothing else (tea, reading, music, warm milk, drugs) works. 

Like the scientist she is, Jane observes how her friend/assistant’s absence affects everyone (it's not because she needs a distraction, no siree). Thor is subdued and barely cracks a smile anymore, his normally warm skin is oddly cold, he has to be sedated when they fix Darcy with a feeding tube, and she sees a shadow in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He tells them that his departed mother would have been able to unravel the complex magics laying like a silvery web covering Darcy’s body; however, he cannot bring her to Asgard, unsure how a change in location would affect her life thread (“It still holds, strong and true. This, at least, is a comfort.”). 

Natasha often notes this as she sits in the provided chair, back straight and arms crossed, her eyes never leaving their circuitous sweep and weave over Darcy’s form, taking in everything – the fall and line of each strand of hair, every rise of her chest, every line of her body, every tick of a nerve, each surging pulse at her neck. The assassin takes it in, sometimes caresses a limp hand, smooths the relaxed brow; but always reports, “Darcy is a strong woman. She’ll find her way back.” Everyone notes but does not say anything about the lingering worry lining the Widow’s mouth.

When Clint sits with her, he brings her favorite coffee drink and lets it sit near the bed near her head where she can smell the aroma best. Then he’ll sit, leaning forward in the chair and stare into Darcy’s sleeping face, concern lining his features as he bites the inside of his cheek. Occasionally, he’ll take her hand completely, between both of his, and talks to her in low tones that makes Jane think of parents comforting their children through sickness. Sometimes he’ll sing to her, songs that he knows she likes, songs that she would play often through the lab and pipe to the quinjet when Thor was traveling the human way. He’ll kiss her forehead, her eyes, nuzzle her nose and sniffle softly when his turn ends.

Bruce only takes a turn when he has the time. He is working with Helen and the medical team to devise a possible solution to this problem (consulting with Thor when he receives intel from Asgard) in addition to his other work. The strain is taking a toll, Jane can see, and the gentle doctor has hulked out more often the last few days. He hasn’t laughed since the Incident, always looking dour and one step away from releasing his frustration and fury, hands cemented into fists at his sides and eyes burning with weariness and anger and a kind of distant distractedness. During his vigils over their mutual friend, he doesn’t sit, preferring to stand in a corner, watching her with a concentrated look, mulling over her form, over the collapse, the coma, and Thor’s uncertainty of the source, the nature, and complexity of Darcy’s condition. He says nothing when his turn ends, just steps out without a word or a look.

When Pepper stays, it’s always the night shift. She brings entertainment – movies Darcy loves, polish to paint Darcy’s nails, music Friday pulls from Darcy’s many playlists and books from Darcy’s GoodReads ‘Want to Read’ list. She sleeps in her little boy tees and sweatpants and always looks like a million bucks after a night in the chair, but Jane can see the layers of make-up she needs to look that way, can smell the gallons of lotion she uses on her skin and Darcy’s to keep the appearance of intense self-care, can feel the tension in the other woman’s shoulders that seems to only wind tighter each day, hour, minute Darcy remains silent.

Even Tony, whom, Jane has noted frequently, deals with stress and trauma by burying himself with work, both purposeful and busy, takes to the rotation, pacing around Darcy’s bed, hands jittering around his head, chest, hips in quick succession, muttering sometimes at a mile an hour and always about how she’s really become a bit of a nuisance with this strike play. Sometimes, when it’s her turn to relieve him, she sees the redness of his eyes and knows, somehow, it’s not strictly from lack of sleep. 

And Steve . . . he’s been stretching himself between the upstate facility and the tower. He brought Wanda once, just to see if the Scarlett Witch could help, but she just cried silently and said, “She’s lost and wants to come home, but there is no path left.” He stays when he can, day or night – sometimes a full 24 hours, sometimes just a few hours at a time, but never sleeps while there. His jaw is always drawn tight when he comes, and Darcy never moves for him again. He tells Jane he didn’t know Darcy well, but he can see from the way the others are coping that she is special. And she catches him sometimes, feathering his fingertips along the inside of Darcy’s wrist or caressing her cheek as he gazes down into her face with something resembling tenderness.

Meanwhile, Jane herself . . . 

Jane isn’t accustomed to giving affection and comfort in the face of adversity. It’s Darcy who is usually ready with an ear, a warm hug, a soothing back rub, or a waiting hand to hold; but Jane steps into those shoes when Darcy’s heart stops five days in, ignoring the wracking desperation rattling her bones to grab onto Mrs. Lewis and not let go. She cries with Darcy’s little brother, Derek, in the hidden away alcove just apart from the med bay entrance, holding him up with his bony teenage arms trapped between their bodies as he tries to cover his face and pretend he isn’t trembling. She sits with Mr. Lewis, holds his hand when Mrs. Lewis can’t, lays a hand to the back of his neck when his posture collapses as he prays at Darcy’s bedside.

And she gets tired, so tired. It’s like her body is Darcy’s but awake and wasting away with the struggle of trying to find purchase in this new world without her friend’s hilarious daily narrative of her favorite tv shows and books, the sonorous karaoke sing-alongs during testing phases in the lab, the girl talks and Sex in the City marathons and kick ass way Darcy takes care of her. 

It’s Darcy’s super power, Jane thinks: caring . . . kindness . . . . good ol’fashioned consideration, and they all have responded and become dependent to it in their own ways and now don’t know how to cope with the loss.

…..

Darcy dies and is resurrected. In her next life she finds herself falling through the sky – bright and blue and gorgeous, just like the day she disappeared – with smoking bent metal panels, wiring, and various unidentifiable body parts and sundry debris falling around her. Her mouth is open in a silent scream – her vocal chords are working but her voice is stolen by the inertia – and her eyes, wide open and wind-dry, cannot make the soul-weary tears she wants to shed.

Distantly, a part of her that is not overtaken by panic, wonders if this is Hell. Jumping from nightmare to nightmare, living an endless smorgasbord of deaths over and over again. She wonders how much more she can take before sanity leaves the building to become a drooling bag of mindlessness, and then _maybe THAT’S actual Hell._

Buildings that resemble the New York skyline that she loves, rise up to greet her – cheerful and shiny and clean – as if ignoring the coming devastation of exploded plane guts and dead bodies. She sees a large pool, blue and clear and beautiful with the letters of her mother’s initials painted on the bottom – visible through the waters – and she runs through the air, through the wind, through her own doubts toward that water.

Because it’s the only safe thing she knows anymore.

This time, she can feel the scene change, like her body is a string instrument and she’s been suddenly strummed. It vibrates out from her middle just as the water is reachable, the moment right before she hits the surface; and she begs, “NO NO NO PLEASE!” Because she wants to fall, believes the water will somehow save her, will feel warm and encompassing and safe like amniotic fluid, her mother’s embrace, her place in the tower, her friends – adoptive family, really – Jane and Thor and Eric. 

She just wants to be _home._

But the pool is gone, and she’s no longer falling.

And when she fearfully opens her eyes to see what circle of the Inferno she’s been transferred to, she finds herself held in strong arms and surrounded by light.

She is shaken, cold and wet. The light is calming, warm, and overwhelmingly bright. Darcy swallows against her fear, and clings to strong shoulders that feel hard and stable as rock when a deep, rough voice booms above her, “Rest now, honored Shield Maiden. You are safe for the moment, but your journey is far from over.”

Darcy doesn’t have it in her to question or fight the directive and immediately falls into a deep, nightmare-less regenerative sleep.

…..

It is Thor’s turn to watch over Darcy when her body suddenly seizes, arching off the bed in an implosion of contracting muscle and visible inhale. He jumps to his feet, ready to hold her down if her malady proves to endanger her physically; but she is still lost and settles down again with a soft, relieved sigh that sets his blood hot and cold at the same time. He watches the machinery, the red and green and white numbers and letters Earth has conjured to measure life, but aside from a slight elevation in blood pressure and a quickening of the beeps that signify the beating of her heart, there is no sounding of alarm. Her face has a little more color, exhibits a more relaxed non-expression – more a natural sleep and less simulated death.

The net of glimmer lining her body has loosened but still keeps her in its hold. Thor watches and gives a silent prayer of thanks to his brethren for easing her troubles this small extent. 

This young woman, no more than an infant to his advanced years, is his acknowledged family, a sister of his heart and child of his blood. Whoever has done this evil thing will bear the mark of his vengeance when the dark work comes to light. This he has vowed every night of watching and will continue to vow until the fiend is brought to swift justice.

Kneeling at her bedside, he takes up her hand and kisses the softness of her palm, a benediction. “Be at ease, Lady. You are with friends now.” He presses his lips to each pinking cheek, doesn’t let go her hand. Tomorrow he will inform Jane and Darcy’s honored family of the night’s events. Tomorrow he will tell his Earthen comrades of their friend’s current circumstance. 

But tonight, tonight, he will offer his solidarity, his strength, his loyalty, and support. Tonight he will pray to Odin, to Frigga’s ghost, to his ancestors and Vanaheim to protect, guide, and watch over his beloved friend, chosen sister, and niece as she finds her way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3: Into the Light


	3. Into the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy awakens in Asgard, and her condition is (partially) explained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Norse mythology guide that will no doubt expand: Baldr, god of love, light (and various other things). He is said to be the most beloved of the gods and possessing an honest, discerning, likeable personality. He is so pure of heart, he literally glows with light. His wife is Nanna Nepsdottir and their house is called Breidablik and it's said only the pure (or purest) can enter. Urd's Well is located under one of the three roots of Yggdrasil and the water is said to be so holy that anything that enters the well will become "as white as the membrane called the skin that lies round the inside of the eggshell." I took a wee bit of artistic license.

Once when Darcy was a little girl, she got it into her head to collect raindrops to make her very own ocean. She had waited patiently for a rain storm and one Saturday when the clouds began to gather and gray, she had donned her little pink raincoat with the navy polka dots, cab yellow goulashes and hood to resolutely stand in the drive, hands cupped out in front of her as the rain began to fall.

She stood out there for what seemed like hours (it was only twenty minutes) but the water kept leaking out between her pruning fingers so all she was able to gather was a microscopic pond. She had stomped into the house, tracking water and frustration, leaving her wet things trailing the floor; and nursed the failure fueled anger for the rest of the day by refusing to speak to anyone or fulfill her chores. 

When her father – instead of reprimanding her for bad behavior – asked her what she was about, Darcy told him about her goal of making her very own ocean. He had looked at her seriously for a moment before very patiently asking her why she wanted an ocean and why did the ocean have to be hers. She had no ready answer and the question had left her cold and unable to sleep that night. 

She had been such a little shit at eight years old. 

“As are we all when blinded by the pride and greed of youth.” The voice that breaks through the waking dream is female, melodious, soft with a hint of humor. The tone is wrong but the tempo and flow of syllables reminds Darcy of her mother. With a twinge of resistance, a tiny lingering fear of what she will see, aware eyes open to take in an expansive bedroom of opulent silks, crowned in silver and held by golden columns. She hears fire crackling somewhere though starlight streams heavy and warm from the tall windows decorated in Celtic gold and silver filigree. 

Darcy sits up with some effort, trying to take in everything but registering nothing. Her glasses are gone . . . have been gone since she was at the Tower, actually - and yet she can _see_ . . . 

Feeling even more lost than when she was channel surfing crazy town, her eyes land on a loom. A full-size, wooden, kind-of-thing-you-see-in-museums loom. And in front of the loom sits a woman in a straight back chair, with brown hair neatly braided down her back and lying on the floor like a darkly colored snake, dressed in a plain, full-length gown of maroon and leather bracers. 

She watches Darcy with an indulgent smile, eyes warm and liquid like hot chocolate while her fingers pluck at colored string hanging tight from the loom. “Your waking is a good omen.” Finishing up whatever she was doing, she straightens and walks to Darcy’s bedside. “You have been asleep for quite some time – more there than here, of course. We worried that you would not wish to wake with the scars of the cleaving fresh about you.” 

Deciding to forgo the questions that raised, Darcy went with, “Where am I?” 

"The truth is complicated and will be explained when my husband is free to join us. The simplest form of answer is Breidablik." 

Trying to swallow the first and recognizing the second, Darcy bows her head and closes her eyes with a soft sob. _Asgard. Thank Thor_. She had never been before despite her close bond with Thor and Jane, though she had secretly (or maybe not so secret, she only asked every single time Thor went off world if she could stow away in his non-existent luggage); and considering what it took to get here (a series of events that still remains clouded with smoke and brimstone in her mind), she's pretty sure this will be a short visit of the been-there-done-that-got-the-t-shirt variety; but yeah, okay, she can work with this. 

"Well, complicated or not, thank you - and your husband - for rescuing me from . . . whatever the hell that was." (And what _exactly_ was that? How did I get there? How did I get _here_? Does Thor or anyone on Earth know where I am? Can I get back? Will I get back? Iwannagobacknowplease). The questions pile one atop the other in a mishmash of confusion and quiet, if pained, desperation; but she doesn't want to give the impression of being ungrateful. "By the way, I'm Darcy. Darcy Lewis." And then, just in case, "I know Thor." 

The woman - not too much older looking than Darcy but possessing a maternal aura so thick, Darcy imagines a passel of children pulling on her skirts - seats herself easily at the foot of the bed, patting Darcy's covered foot softly. "I have known of you quite some time, my dear. My brother is much given to embellishment when rendering a tale; however, he has ever been quite careful when speaking of his Lightning Sister." She pauses for a moment, tilting her head slightly toward the door before focusing on Darcy again. "I am called Nanna Nepsdottir, the mistress of this house. My husband is Baldr and very anxious to greet you and talk of the bad business that brought you away from Midgard. I would see you break your fast and refresh yourself before introductions are made, however, as my husband can exhaust those not accustomed to his character." She blushes a little at this before her brows crimp in mild concern, "And - though your form certainly does not require it - perhaps some vestment to keep you?" 

Still completely discombobulated (and who wouldn't be after the day? week? hour? year? _fuck my_ life?) she had just experienced, Darcy stares at this woman - possibly the most purely beautiful woman she had ever seen (and she knows Pepper _I-dare-you-to-find-a-hair-out-of-place_ Potts) - and tries to translate that last bit when an errant draft draws her face, gaze, everything down to (finally) register her own blatant nakedness. And - for just a moment - before her natural modesty can rise up in a full body flush - her brain goes through the card catalog of memory and yes, she had been wearing her new Iron Man theme sweater and jeggings with the sparkly shoes and rocked it until it was all lost in the dark water she had died in before finding herself in the middle of a sun's embrace and here. Aaaaaaand once all of that is out of the way, she shoots Nanna an apologetic glance and shifts the blankets up to hide her skin; because, seriously, she knows she has a great body, loves her figure and wouldn't change a thing, but generally speaking, Darcy prefers to have an established rapport with someone before letting them get the full monty. 

Boundaries, man. 

"Um . . . yes, sorry. Food and some clothes would be greatly appreciated." She squirms under the warm studying gaze and quells slightly when the Asjur's smile widens slightly, the expression practically melting with a measure of affection Darcy would normally be uncomfortable with - all prickly and put upon and jumping out of her skin; but on Nanna, it feels right, like Darcy has somehow earned it, natural and assuring. 

"There is no need for apologies." Nanna rises to her feet again, takes a step toward the door. "I will have a servant bring you a light repass and assist your dressing. Once your needs are satisfied, we shall take the evening meal together and make time for your many warranted questions." She turns to the door again and fairly floats, the hem of her gown giving the barest flutter as she walks (and Darcy does hear heel falls against the marble floor) away. _Away_.

And just like that, Darcy's stomach is in her throat (or somewhere in the vicinity of her tail bone, doesn't really matter, it's not where it's supposed to be) and she's scrambling to cross the bed and lands on the floor on her knees, face burning with fear and humiliation as the tears fall again and she buries and hides her eyes in her hands. She doesn't want to be alone, is blindingly afraid of just the idea; but her voice isn't working and words won't come. It's probably one of the few times in her life, she's speechless and not because of shock. 

Nanna is before her and gathering her into a body that is soft and warm and so, so fantastically real and substantial that Darcy is incapable of stopping the torrent, her throat going raw from the force of all the caged in terror and uncertainty and homesickness and everything being released. And through it all, Nanna simply holds her, smooths her hair, strokes her back and coos into her ear in a musical language she doesn't understand as all of her muscles loose and become wet noodles. 

When the storm of sobs calms into sniffling hiccups, Nanna speaks, her tone serious and encouraging, "Know you are safe with us, little Lightening Maiden. Know that you are our favored Sister now and all days to come. I see the strength in you. You are a worthy Shield and a fierce Warrior; and when the eve comes that you must begin the journey home, you will gird yourself with that strength and no force, nor god, nor man, nor circumstance will bar your way."

Darcy feels the words seep into her bones, and as she clings to Nanna, sinks her fingers into the other woman's flesh and presses her cheek into Nanna's chest, she cannot help but think they are hollow when she is so afraid and lost and hopeless . . . nothing more than a child who wanted an ocean and thought she could hold it in her hands.

.....

Clint is looking out of Darcy's window as she breathes softly under the airy sound of running oxygen and the metallic ring of the instruments recording her vital signs. It's been a rough two months without her. The kids have been asking and asking and asking to come to see her. Laura isn't any better; but he doesn't want them to see her this way, doesn't want to move them in case Darcy isn't the only target of whatever this is (. . . doesn’t want Darcy to think they are saying good-bye). Tony and (surprisingly) Bruce have become – respectively - insufferably grouchy (notably different than insufferably arrogant which can – in certain circumstances – be hilarious and charming) and completely off-the-deep-end obsessed with finding a "cure" when Dr. Cho has said over and over and over and over again that there is nothing physically, mentally, biochemically or otherwise _wrong_ with Darcy that can be fixed by modern medicine. Jane is a complete basket case - previously waifish and now downright zombie-ish; as she buries herself deeper and deeper in work when she isn't massaging Darcy's limbs to prevent blood clots and giving the Lewis family updates by phone and facetime and social media. He's pretty sure she hasn't slept in weeks at least. Thor has taken to looking perpetually constipated (not a good look for him) and world hopping every few days. And Natasha is . . . Natasha, letting it all out on missions when the opportunity for a good ol' fashioned bad guy beat down is called for. 

He's pretty sure it would have been a little easier if Darcy had gone physically missing instead of . . . this. At least if she had been kidnapped they would have a clear tangible goal, something to track, chase after and fight (and fuck if he didn't need a good fight right now, all of them. The tension weighed on their shoulders by the ton and couldn't be cut by a fucking porcelain knife). But this, she is just silent and sleeping, there but not, alive but not, with no explanation, no solution, no one to trail and nothing to beat. It's _maddening_. 

Because he really loves Darcy in a little sister kind of way. Laura loves her and the kids call her Auntie. He had taken a shine to her in New Mexico, after the destroyer, when she had evaded every single question he had thrown at her with song lyrics (some of them so cryptic and obscure he had had to make umpteen Google searches before the answers made any damn sense) and got in a few flirtatious come-ons to boot. He had been amused by her audacity and charmed by her genuine warmth (he was happily married, yes; a family man, yes; but it was nice to be looked at by a pretty young thing with appreciation). And once Foster (finally) saw the light and moved into the Tower, he and Darcy had built a strong sibling bond starting on move-in day when she gave him a long once over, sighing resignedly and said without irony, "I've always wanted to be a middle child." 

She had been (was? is? will be?) a breath of fresh air (happiness? _life_ ) in the ensuing days after her arrival and beyond, insinuating herself into their bizarre super-powered family unit as if she had always been there. She was so achingly _normal_ and well-adjusted and functional. Darcy simply didn't operate the way everyone else inhabiting the tower's critical spaces did. When someone new appeared, she didn't react with suspicion or begin cataloging the weapons the interloper might be packing. No, she would invariably grin, introduce herself in her own unique way ("Darcy Lewis, Avenger's Tower resident buster of Tony Stark's balls"), and gain a lifelong friend in ten seconds flat. Not to say Darcy was a wide-eyed innocent who didn't nurture a healthy dose of self-preservation; but it wasn't the instinct she led in with. (Of course, she wasn't all angel dust, fairie wings, and rainbows. Get on her bad side, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.) 

He likes to joke she is their team mascot because it is guaranteed to earn him a patented chipmunk face of doom, but the truth is, she's the **heart**. And they have reached new levels of broken without her. 

"Any change?" It's Steve relieving him again. Steve, who seems - on the surface - to be unaffected by Darcy's current state. Steve, who has tried to be the most stable of rocks for all of them through this. Steve, who is somehow full-charged and ready for more between doing double time Darcy duty, coordinating the construction of the new facility, (still) looking for Bucky, and taking every. Single. Mission. that comes their collective way. Clint doesn't know how the man does it, super serum or no. 

"Not a hair." He tries not to see the way Steve looks at Darcy lying there. It's not an inappropriate or particularly intense expression. It's not painted in love or heartache or some die-hard devotion. However, it is painful: tenderness and understanding, hope and guilt all wrapped up in the shadowed crystal blue of his eyes. Clint feels like he's witnessing something strangely intimate when he catches a glimpse (and it probably _would_ be an intimacy if Darcy had gotten her head out of her ass a while ago and asked the man out because he knew for a damn fact Steve would never have the balls (and isn't that a fucking shame? Because, dude, even Laura, Connor and Lila ship it)). 

Steve falls into The Chair (still old and uncomfortable but now with uppercase letters and upgraded to proper noun) with a heavy groan as he swipes a hand over his face. It's the closest the Captain will ever come to admitting fatigue. "She's not aging." 

Clint thinks he may have read that wrong but, "Who's not aging?" 

"Darcy. I talked to Helen before coming here. Her cells aren't aging anymore. Whatever happened, it's like her body is frozen." He doesn't say _kinda like I was_. The words are in the haunted shadows creeping around his eyes. 

Making his way around the room, touching Darcy's hair, her shoulder, her hand, Clint finally claps Steve on the shoulder. "That doesn't have to be a bad thing." Thor had told them weeks ago that someone or something had worked a kind of spell on Darcy, trapping her into this condition. The Asgardian Prince hadn't gone into much more detail but did hint that while her body was trapped _here_ , the stuff that made her Darcy (soul, spirit, essence, whathaveyou) might be somewhere else entirely. And if that is the case, Clint thinks that maybe her body is preserving itself for when she returns home. 

Of course, as Clint takes his leave of Darcy's med room, he can tell by the way Steve touches his fingertips to hers, his leader isn't so optimistic. 

.....

As it turns out, "a small repass" is a three course meal of greens, soup, bread and cheese; "refreshment" is some brown liquid that smells like a brewery (which she can totally get behind, it's been that kind of day? hour? _fuck it all_ series of events, but she's pretty damn sure she needs all her wits about her right now) but tastes like pure sugar; and "vestment" is a gorgeous gown with a golden cord halter that freakishly reminds Darcy of baklava, all super thin, delicate layers of wine-colored watered silk that falls (like water) from a golden necklace (there is no bra so her breasts are free and hang just a touch low but the material is pulled tense enough to give a surprising amount of support), gathers beautifully beneath a golden plated belt thing that criss-crosses over her waist then alternately climbs up (alongside her breasts) or plunges(to hug her hips) around her back, then flows (like water) to the floor in a smooth, weightless fall. Her shoulders are left bare, gold plating - a smaller version of the belt thing - circles her forearms and more of that light, flowy, almost-transparent silk falls over her elbows, hands to lap the dress hem. She's been outfitted in soft, deerskin boots that reach her knees and a regal-looking hood and cloak ("the likes to keep you warm, you poor lamb") of muted gray. Her hair is brushed out and braided and styled with (what feels like) a bazillion pins and ornamental combs - Darcy is certain - are sentient beings who feast on the blood of their victims. 

Before she is guided to the main hall to "audience" with Baldr and Nanna, she takes a moment to view herself in the small looking glass provided and stares. She's felt a variety of things at her appearance before: sexy, pretty, okay, meh, (once or twice) beautiful, professional and smart; and even when she looked her very best, she had always been slightly frustrated by a gnawing sense of being slightly unkempt, just a touch rumpled, with just the very hint of wind-blown. Here, this is the first time she has achieved _elegant_ , and she's not quite sure how to deal. 

It's just one thing she's not quite sure how to deal with and probably the least important. For one, should she wear the cloak indoors? (Thor's stories lack even hints of the etiquette of his world.) She decides to err on the side of caution and clasps the heavy thing at the base of her neck with an offered a broach, lovely piece of airy jewelry that boasts the largest opal Darcy has ever seen. For another, as she sits at (what she assumes) the thick wooden dining table (it's more the size of a banquet table, really with a hundred marble chairs that probably weigh more than her car . . . each), she is seated to the right of the head chair, alone and nervous. First, she fiddles with her hands at her lap then on the table then fixes hair that doesn't need fixing; bending up at least five times to swoop the skirting of her dress and fall of her cloak neat and tight (but not too tight) beneath her thighs (the lack of underwear is a sore point); squirms, rocking on her thighs side to side and edging into a nosy little stretch every time a shadow passes along the hall walls; tapping her toes on the cold, hard floor to the tune of "Don't Fear the Reaper"; and finally, fussing with the folds of her gown and wondering if Nanna will change out of the drab brown dress she was in earlier because Darcy does not want to commit the fashion faux pas of dressing even more awesome than her host. 

She doesn't wait long (but it feels like forever and a day). There is a flurry of activity as at least twenty people (servants, Darcy guesses by the sweat on their brows and monotone clothing) come out from nowhere and set down at least twenty different platters and serving dishes of steaming food. Nanna appears with Hlin - the servant that assisted Darcy - at her ear. She is still in the drab dress and seems just a bit crushed but glowing and gorgeous as she catches Darcy's eye and smiles reassuringly. Then there is a whisper and silence as all the torches and candles lighting the interior rooms burn bright, brighter, brightest until the entire dining room (banquet hall?) is flooded and Darcy has to shade her eyes. 

Nanna, sitting just across, gestures that Darcy should stand and she does, too quickly, stumbling slightly on the hem of her cloak. She swallows, blushing and aims her eyes to the table, wondering if this is what it feels like to meet the President or Queen of England because it certainly feels that formal but - if memory serves - Baldr is Thor's brother, a prince not a king (still deserving formality, maybe), and Thor has never been one to stand on ceremony (although his table manners have seen a marked improvement over the years). 

It becomes clear shortly that the standing isn't formality, it's a prerequisite to meeting another Odinson. 

Darcy can barely register the gleaming fireball of a manshape that takes her up into Thor-strong arms, lifting her off her feet to squeeze the living shit out of her. There's explosive laughter that rumbles against her belly like an earth tremor and Nanna's soft counterpoint reminding gently that "our guest is not Aesir, remember your strength"; and if it weren't for the fact that she cannot breathe, she'd probably be enjoying the embrace, it reminds her so much of Thor's all-encompassing bear hugs. 

She's released just when her vision starts to go, and after taking a second to reclaim her breath, Darcy is taken aback by her first real glance at Baldr, the Norse god of love and light (and some other things Darcy cannot remember at the moment because seeing him in the flesh robs her of every fucking sensical thought in her brain). 

_Holy mother of FUCK_. The god is about the same height and width of Thor with rippling muscle, visible through the deep v of his tunic (if you could call it that), just under pleasantly coarse-looking, perfectly tan skin. His hair is a gleaming white-gold that seems to generate its very own breeze, tumbling over his shoulders in perfect, pantene-worthy waves. His face reminds her of Thor's but the features are sharper, more dangerous looking with an attractive amount of stubble and long blonde lashes. He was the most beautiful, handsome, sexy, justenteryouradjectivehereokay man she had ever seen in her entire life, and she lived with the fucking Avengers. She had spoon fed Tony Stark, rubbed sunscreen on Thor's abs, massaged Hawkeye's bulging-biceps-of-bodaciousness, helped strip the Black Widow out of her tight-as-fuck catsuit, and sat next to Captain you-bet-your-ass America on the common room couch to watch Sunday football. Point? She should be immune to insanely beautiful people by now, she should be able to function like a normal human being in the face of that much attractiveness; but Baldr . . . . . _This dude is the sole reason why sex was invented._

Nanna's giggle breaks through the trance-of-pretty. Darcy blinks and notices Baldr's face is red (which is interesting in itself because he is also literally _glowing_ like an earthen-bound star). "O. M. G. Did I say that out loud?" 

Baldr merely shakes his head, grinning then shooting a wink in her direction. "It pleases me greatly that you appear well, little sister; and pleases me even more to welcome you into my house. There are many heavy things to speak of and heavier questions to examine; but first, a warm meal among new friends. Please, take your rest and eat your fill." 

Darcy isn't all that hungry to begin with - having just eaten not an hour before; however, she nibbles a little bit of everything - meat from animals she's never heard of before, fruit that looks prickly but goes down smooth as wine, grain dishes that make her think of cardboard but are actually pretty tasty and desserts that make her wish she could doggie bag. The conversation flows in that stilted way when people are making a new connection, but Darcy doesn't mind, isn't self-conscious about it. Baldr is such a personality that once she gets past his blinding good looks, she can appreciate that he’s easy to talk to and a gifted story-teller. His voice is as attractive as the rest of him but also delightful in the rhythm of his speech . . . like a cadenced epic poem that never ends; and when Nanna's melodic voice merges with his, she’s suddenly listening to a song, all the more beautiful for its unexpectedness. 

As it becomes clear that dinner will be ending soon, dishes are cleared and Baldr's light dims to nearly nothing. Both Aesir become serious in their countenance and Darcy's anxiety reawakens in the form of bouncing knees. No one seems to want to start in the silence that holds over them so Darcy decides to take the bull by the horns, "Look, I really, _really_ thank you both for your hospitality and just everything, but do either of you know how I got here? I mean, one minute I'm on Earth . . . Midgard, doing what I do, then it's like I'm in someone's idea of a horror montage from hell and end up here." _After drowning in the dark ocean_ , she doesn't say. She can still feel the certainty of death in the cold of her chest and doesn't want to think about it. 

Exchanging a look that says more than it doesn't, Baldr and Nanna reach out to touch her. Not really accustomed to such casual, unannounced touching from practical strangers, Darcy flinches slightly when Baldr's warm fingers feather across her forehead and tenses her fingers when Nanna's hand takes hers. 

"We . . . are not entirely certain of the manner your current form came to be; however, the result is not unheard of." Baldr's eyes are as white gold as his hair, she notices, as his fingers fall from her brow to lightly caress the curve of her cheek. 

"Then other people - from Midgard or maybe other realms - have ended up here for no apparent reason?" 

His fingers settle at her chin and the attitude of his mouth makes her think of apologies and offered comfort. Nanna's hand tightens about her fingers and Darcy knows she will not like whatever they are about to tell her. "It is not the end location that I reference. It is the state of you here and the state of you on Midgard." 

Darcy tries to pull back, has a niggling - has had a niggling for a while now - of what he means but his fingers keep her there without force and Nanna's eyes catch hers, they are steady and firm like the earth. "I don't understand. I'm _here_ , in Asgard. How can someone be in two places at once and only be aware of one?" 

This time, Nanna answers, and her words, when they come, are muted and fading as Darcy comprehends them. "Your body yet resides in Midgard, Lady Darcy. Your soul was cleaved, torn from its living anchor and set adrift. Had my husband not been searching at Thor's behest, you would have been lost to the nine realms forever." 

Feeling feint, Darcy glances down at her hands with unblinking, burning eyes. Saliva gathers in her mouth and her stomach aches with the weight of this news and disbelief. "No . . . no, I'm here. You can see and touch me. I ate your food. How can I be just a spirit?" And then, a wailing, "I feel alive!" 

Baldr's touch moves from her chin as he places either hand on her cheeks, directing her gaze to focus blearily on him. "When I found you, you were caught in the Dreaming, a realm beyond the power of any Aesir. From there, I did guide you to the waters of Urd’s Well which allowed me to free you from the Dream and has granted you the appearance of flesh; however, know that this skin is no more than a veil, thinner than the wall of a chick's egg." 

Nanna fairly lays across the table to grasp her other hand, though - distantly - Darcy thinks the Asyjur would much rather have Darcy in her arms. "Lady Darcy," Nanna is smiling with wet, shining eyes, "your true form is yet of Midgard and still of the living. We cannot know how this horrible thing has come, but please know your family and friends - both here and there - are making steady, good work to put this to rights." 

But Darcy isn't listening anymore. She can only hear every wish and hope and plan and goal she ever had for her future crash into nothing like so many glass fragments cutting beneath her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: Hogun of Vanaheim


	4. Hogun of Vanaheim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy pulls up her big girl pants. Hogun the Grim makes an appearance. Jane is a workaholic and the Avengers have a slumber party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get a LOT accomplished in this chapter so that I could move on to the juicy stuff and I think I did cover what I wanted to cover. Things are gonna be happening from here on out. Get ready for PLOT.

Tony doesn't spend much time in Darcy's room. Sure, he takes a turn at Darcy-sitting every two weeks or so, pacing around the small enclosure with its stale air, wilting flower bouquets, and beep, beep, beeping (driving him cray, cray, crazy even if he knows what quiet could mean); but he'd rather be in his workshop tearing shit down then rebuilding it - bigger and better - then blowing it up and starting over from scratch, drawing up schematics then scrapping them and going back to the drawing board.

He feels like he's doing something then . . . can separate himself from everything that matters, look at the situation with a distant, cold eye and come up with a million brilliant ideas and solutions to test out; but here, in this depressing as fuck room with this body everyone says is Darcy Lewis but has exactly zero of her vim and vigger (or sass or fun or - _goddamn it Lewis, wake the fuck up already!_ ), he has no purpose and no ideas. 

Which grates even harder when he has Darcy's parents calling every few days asking him if it wouldn't be better if she were moved to a long term care facility ("I'm not her Power of Attorney, that's your decision.") which he can't stand the idea of any more than he can stand this fucking little room because the thought of Darcy, vulnerable and alone in some old-folks home where anyone can abuse her body without them there to guard her takes him to the edge of a panic attack or rage. He doesn't tell her parents this, doesn't even try to convince them that their idea sucks. She's not his daughter, not even really his direct employee. He is only too aware of just how little control he has over every aspect of this situation, and the knowledge that he has no idea what to do about any of it _burns_.

It's hard to have an idea of what to do when you don't even know what the fuck went wrong in the first place; and the theory of what happened - Darcy's soul flitting about in parts unknown - is so far out of his realm of experience (and belief) that he's not sure what to do with it. Is it possible to build a soul? If so, what are the components, specifications, measurements, parameters, tolerances? And if all materials were laid out before him, how could he create a soul just like the original, with all the memories, personality quirks, affection, and vinegar he knew and tolerated for the sake of the team (OKAY. Because he kinda liked the little harridan. She could be good times when she wasn't nagging - constantly - about "eat this," "sign that," "fucking bathe once in a while you overgrown man-troll".) 

But he can't build a soul, doesn't really believe in their existence anyway; and being in this room with the "soulless" Darcy-doll stops all of his creativity and imagination to help and makes him . . . . _tired_ , old, and _aware of his feelings_. He doesn't like it, so he doesn't spend much time in Darcy's room. But he's here today - night? What the fuck day is it anyway? - because Pepper had volunteered him even though he had better, more important, Avenger-esque things to do like update everyone's weaponry with laser canons and electro-magnetic sonic blasts or start production on Mach . . . . What number was he on again? 

He can admit it: things had gotten kind of fuzzy the last few weeks. He thinks it’s because of this flu he hasn't been able to shake off the last month or so (it's absolutely not because he hasn't slept much in . . . a long fucking time or because when he does sleep he has nightmares that would make Superman cry. Nope. Not at all.) 

"You're killing us, kid," he murmurs as he rubs at his eyes that are so dry they water every single time he steps in this room. He really needs to invest in some eye drops - preferably medicated and accompanied by liquor and Burger King - if Pepper keeps insisting he visit and vigil. 

He sighs and wings his arms stiffly against his body just to hear the sound. "So, Brain, what are we gonna do tonight?" She doesn't answer and he doesn't feel like playing this sad game of ad lib. 

Collapsing into The Chair (trademark pending), Tony stares out across Darcy's nose seeing nothing, attempting to feel nothing. "We can play rummy . . . go fish . . . but I don't have a deck of cards so that's out. I’ll bring it next time . . . Friday can deliver Monopoly or Scrabble, but I bet you'd win just to spite me." He suddenly stops and focuses on her face, the features of it, the calm oblivion there and hoarsely, "You need to come back, kid. You have to. I'm not giving you a choice; and when you do get back, you're not taking any vacations for at least a decade, understand?" 

Then he subsides, lets in the silence, and finally (if fitfully) sleeps. 

.....

Darcy doesn't sleep, can't. She tries. As Nanna sleeps peacefully beside her on the softest bed ever in the prettiest, biggest guestroom of this freaking paradise of a house, Darcy fuses her eyes shut uselessly for a few hours before giving up to stare at the shadowed silver above. Her thoughts are still in a whirl ( _What am I going to do? How is this going to work? Can I get back to my body? Will I have a body to go back to? Are the Avengers in the know? Are they doing anything? Is Jane okay? Why isn't Thor **here** already? What is going to happen to me? Does this mean I'm . . . dead? And if I'm not, what does that make me? Does my family know? What is going on?_ ) and her spirits (ha!) are flagging a bit, but she's officially done with tears and crying and wishing for things to be different. 

And as the night wakens to what constitutes day in Asgard (and looks a lot like a nice day on Earth with more heavenly bodies visible and a much more dramatic horizon), Darcy makes the decision to find the fucker who "cleaved" her from her body and beat the shit out of him with his cleaver or whatever before vaporizing his balls with one of Tony's repulsor beams (she keeps picturing Loki even though the bastard's supposedly dead because this shit has Loki written all over it with glittery green and gold glue stick) . . . preferably after she gets back _in_ her body. 

She has no idea how she's going to start and plans to talk it over with Nanna and Baldr over breakfast in addition to asking if she can get word to Thor, maybe speak to Heimdall or visit Odin, see if there's a way to communicate with Jane, and get the skinny on what - exactly - being an out-of-body spirit actually means. Because, dude, there has to be something good about being a spirit, right? _Right_? She already infiltrated the dream-scape (doesn't matter if she didn't mean to or want to or that she ended up there because her soul had been cut out of her body like a fucking cut-and-paste ransom letter and didn't actually know where she was. She went there. 'Nuff said), and maybe she'll develop telepathy, the ability to fly, heal, or travel at the speed of light (never mind that she feels utterly normal and exactly the same as always, she needs something to tell Connor and Lila when she gets out of this conundrum and back to her little corner of Midgard awesome). 

And she is going to get back to Midgard, back to her body. It's not a question but a foregone conclusion. In the immortal words of Eminem, "Success is my only mother-fucking option, failure's not." 

Nanna wakes and looks at her strangely then mouths something that Darcy can't hear for the sudden ringing in her ears and pain in her head. She's almost dizzy with it and lays hands over her ears, buries her head against the mattress. The episode doesn't last long - not even ten minutes in her estimation - and when it ends Nanna's voice reaches her, "I beg your pardon, Lady Darcy, for neglecting to warn you. That was Gullinkambi. He calls for his morning meal. "

"'S okay, Nanna." Darcy straightens the night gown of white linen she had been dressed in after dinner. She hadn't been aware enough to appreciate the way it show-cased her shoulders and the taper of her arms and made her feel delicate, beautiful, and powerfully feminine (she fervently hopes they let her keep it so that after this is all over, she can wear it and feel this way again). Blushing slightly for no reason at all, she begins to nervously gather and twist her hair over one shoulder, smiling shyly at the other woman. "Good morning." "It gladdens me to see you in such a humor." Nanna's voice is thick, her smile, soft and hopeful. She tells Darcy that breakfast is a small affair, will be held momentarily, and that she is welcome to wear her night dress as there will be time for dressing afterwards. Darcy merely nods and moves to follow Nanna as she leaves but stops herself. She had practically begged Nanna to sleep with her last night out of sheer terror of being left alone; and while the fear is still there, stronger now that the nature of her problem is known, she knows she cannot beat this thing if she can't stand her own shadow for company. With that thought, she looks to the floor, the walls and sees the vague darkening lining the floor beneath her gown. She still has a shadow . . . or her clothes do. _Be grateful for small miracles._ Then begins the catalog: feet, legs, body are the same . . . minus various scars from the hard knocks of childhood and that time she had to get her appendix out (this makes her sad but she swallows it down to continue); still got a belly button and the girls are looking totes gorg as ever but there's a barely there silvery line just above where her heart beats . . . normally but currently _isn't_ ( _bizarre_ doesn't even begin to describe that creepiness), and her face and hair are exactly the same. 

Distantly, she thinks she should be tired, but she isn't. She can eat . . . but isn't very hungry at all, even now and . . . hasn't had to use the facilities, so some biological functions are void apparently. Sensation isn't quite the same, she has to admit. Touch feels more like simple pressure, maybe a little ticklish but lacks a certain something she can't put her finger on; she can still taste and smell and discern warmth and cold; and emotion - she has to admit - is a bit more intense, like certain filters have been turned off and everything is at once clearer and more _raw_. 

Hlin arrives to ask if she wishes to dress for the day before breaking her fast just as Darcy has rolled the nightgown back down over her legs. 

"Thanks, but I think I'd like to wear this just a little longer." She likes the way it feels across her skin, likes the symbol of it - care and protection so strong she has a feeling the thin material would be more effective than armor. Hlin smiles and nods slightly before touching her fingertips to Darcy's temple in a gesture that is becoming more and more familiar if not apparent in meaning. Then Darcy's hair is brushed out of the braids it had been couched in for sleep and a small hank plaited about her head like a coronet, the rest arranged in a cascade down her back. She thinks she could get used to the pampering and daily hair-styling. It's peaceful and relaxing, reminding her of the innocent intimacy of middle school when you had your bffs style your hair at sleep overs before the teen years turned you all into bitches more interested in competing for attention and Truth or Dare. When she gets back, she’s going to start weekend braiding parties with Janie, Pepper, Nat, Maria, and – hell – anyone with hair to braid. The more the merrier.

Hlin's hands rest on Darcy's shoulders when the work is done and reaches down to kiss her cheek. "In your travels, Lady, should you ever have need of me, call my name and there I shall be. This I vow as an Asyjur and honored servant of our departed Queen." 

Darcy feels a steady heat build just beneath her shoulder blades as she turns to see Hlin smiling serenely. No other words are exchanged as Darcy is summarily urged to stand and led to the dining room for breakfast, the phantom warmth of Hlin's touch fading into tingles. 

Thor had told her once or twice just how important vows are to the Aesir, how an unsatisfied vow is a mark of dishonor. No Aesir entered into such a promise blindly or carelessly, and once made, the oath bound the oath-maker and the oath-taker together for as long as the promise remained unfulfilled. Considering this, Darcy wonders at the two women whom had already made such binding promises to her ( _what the fuck were they thinking, tying themselves to this trainwreck_?) and felt something like awe: quiet, reflective, and maybe a little _unworthy_.

When this was all over (and it was going to be if she had anything to say about it), she was going to drain her bank account buying Nanna and Hlin super nice gifts. Never mind that she was probably never coming to Asgard again, she would find a way, damnit.

Breakfast is indeed light fare - bread and cheese with some frothy milk so fresh there's cream on top - and reminds Darcy of the morning she left for college with Baldr and Nanna taking place of her parents: Baldr, enthusiastic and talkative while Nanna sits with an absent kind of expression, a slight tension lining her shoulders noticably. 

When Darcy tells them of her plans to confront the problem of her life head on, they are both supportive and express confidence in her abilities while cautioning of the challenges that come before, suggesting that Baldr accompany her for protection. 

"It's not like I'm actually alive here," Darcy argues not because she wouldn't like the company, she doesn't want to cause any more trouble for them than she already maybe has. "My soul won't die if someone tries to hurt me." 

Baldr shakes his head, his glow making her wish for sunglasses. "Your soul may not be capable of death but there are creatures and beings in this world and other realms which collect, devour, and destroy souls. It should be known, the homunculus acting as your vessel, is fragile and will need replenishment in time and a wound to the flesh will unbind you to this world. If such comes to pass, you will be interred to the chaos of which I found you or worse." 

He pauses for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts before regarding her with a gentle look that causes a strange sensation just beneath the silvery scar of her chest. "Also, be warned, Lady of my blood, your Midgardian body is yet alive only because the life string still holds. It is only a small fetter, easily dispatched, more fragile than the flesh that houses your shade. Time and any further disturbances to your form here shall surely fray that mortal cord and the connection between your two selves will be no longer." 

Darcy merely stares at him. _Well, that isn't frightening at all. Still . . ._

"Okay . . . okay. A lot to process but, yeah." She gathers her thoughts and tries, "But . . there has to be some perk to being this way, right? Should I be able to see the future? Fly? Read minds? Something to help me survive in this state so that I can survive on Earth?" 

His expression is puzzled but not unkind. "Were you possessing of these abilities on Midgard, little sister?" 

Sighing, she shakes her head and looks down at her hands thinking that these Aesir folks really have a loose way of adopting honorary siblings because she doesn’t want to be embarrassed. Her fingers fist in the beautiful white linen. Baldr's palm is warm at the back of her neck as he chuckles, good natured and wholesome, "Then your spirit is of similar power." 

_Fuck_. Darcy tries not to let the disappointment show. How can she hope to accomplish anything substantial when she's the lone human spirit (with all the limitations thereof) and everyone else around here are super-powered beings believed to be _gods_. Not to mention the giant alien animals and monsters and shit shit shit this was starting to look impossible and - 

Reaching to take her husband's hand, Nanna's eyes come to focus, adding. "Whither Baldr or another, you will be guided, little one. A friend approaches this house presently for such purpose." 

Darcy perks up, jumps to her feet, "Is it Thor?" But she's already moving, running with arms outstretched, doesn't hear Nanna's reply, can barely find her way around the house (it's so fucking massive, who the fuck needs this many rooms with just twenty some odd people living here?). She's getting more desperate and frustrated when Hlin comes out from nowhere and directs her to the front gate with laughter in her voice at the child Darcy has become. 

But she doesn't care, too happy at the prospect of a familiar face; and as she crests the front steps, nearly flies down without a slip or falter despite the night gown billowing around her bare feet, she feels the abrasion of a joyful shout jam in her throat when she recognizes who the visitor is. 

She takes in the dark boots, trousers, and fur rimmed coat and tunic; the mustache, braided beard, long jet hair and angular face with the copper eyes; the weaponry and the warhorse trailing behind studded reins. Her disappointment cannot be denied this time. "Shit. _Hogun_?"

His expression suggests he would prefer to be having his teeth removed via hammer and chisel without Novocain. He doesn't acknowledge her even though his eyes are boring into her. "Friend Baldr, Lady Nanna." Of course they had followed to greet their visitor. The non-Midgardians all bowed their heads in mutual respect and acknowledgement. "May this meeting find you well and of good fortune. I have come to collect a parcel which you currently possess. A vision requires the conveyance of this parcel into my care." 

_What the actual f--_ "Ex **CUSE** me?!" Darcy is fuming. _A **parcel**????? I'm _ (and he is totally talking about her, who or what else would he be talking about while staring her down?) _not a fucking object stuffed into a box to be carted about like a goddamn Fedex package!_ She's about to give him a piece of her mind when Baldr steps forward, slinging an easy arm about Darcy's shoulders, clapping her to his right side. She's about to thank him for coming to her defense (not that she needs it) and being a good bro when he responds, 

"Friend Hogun of Vanaheim, you honor us with your visit. Please, rest awhile and refresh your cup and we will speak of your vision-obligation." Darcy turns an exasperated look, mouth dropped open and eyes narrowed, to her (very nice and generous but apparently fucking awful at confrontation) host. 

Hogun shakes his head, face as grim as ever. "There is no time to sup, Baldr." 

She can feel Baldr heave a great sigh before he shoots her an apologetic glance and urges her toward Nanna who stands just a step behind his left shoulder. "Where does this vision quest lead you, brother? Is there yet time to prepare the maiden for departure?" 

The exasperation immediately turns to something conflicted and thorny like confusion, rejection, and disbelief tied into a Rubik’s knot and all the fight goes out of her. It becomes very obvious in that one last spoken sentence that she doesn't have a choice. Like a fucking _parcel_ without thoughts, feelings, goals or opinions, she'll be going with Hogun to god-only-knows-where without any word to or from Midgard or Thor whether she wants to or not. 

Hogun doesn't sugar coat anything, ever. "No more than one turn of the hour glass." 

Nanna gives her a light squeeze, steering her back into the house to prepare (for what, who the fuck knows. At this point, Darcy figures she should just throw up her hands and go with the flow because either way, she's committed to kicking ass and getting home no. matter. what). 

..... 

One day, Jane collapses in exhaustion. 

She's long since abandoned her work among the stars and buried herself in research about out of body experiences, first person narratives about comas, and the physics of death. She notes down the events surrounding Darcy's soul leaving the building - collecting firsthand accounts from everyone who was in the Tower just before, at the time of, and just after the incident (all 1,037 of them) then analyzes the accounts for common keywords and corroborations. 

Going deeper, she has everyone on Darcy-watch rotation keep journals of literally any life signs, unusual happenstances, or even dreams they might notice or have during their vigils, retroactively backdated to the day of the initial incident. 

Going through the journals daily, she takes special interest in her own account of finding Darcy's hand outstretched toward the sleeping Steve that first night. It never happens again in the months following, and after combing through every single page, email, and text she's received from the participants, she can't help but notice that while everyone has fallen asleep several times during their watches, Steve has either never slept in Darcy's room again or has failed to report it. 

Considering all of his journals are well-detailed, even transcribing conversations with the nurse on duty when the subject is Darcy's progress (or lack thereof), Jane is quick to discard the idea of negligence. There's an itch that develops to ask the first Avenger to replicate the scene so that she can observe the phenomena should lightning strike twice. However, after twelve hours of very much needed sleep, she wakes with a full-fledged theory that will not be denied. 

Summarily, she bursts into the Avenger's common room, which currently entertains Steve, Clint, Natasha, and Pepper, and, shooting each a manic look in turn, announces rather loudly that she has an idea, needs all hands on deck at 10pm sharp in Darcy's room, and spread the word. 

Just as suddenly, she turns on a heel and stomps down the hall toward the elevators because she needs to call for Heimdall to send Thor. She barely hears Steve calling behind her for all the chatter in her head; but she stops, surveys him as he approaches. 

A very small, still completely aware part of her notes how _sad_ he looks.

"What's going on?" 

Jane takes a deep breath, impatient and irritated with herself for being impatient. She closes her eyes and allows the fresh wave of loss to crash over. Darcy was so much better at explaining things, lay person to lay person. "I have a theory about that first night, when Darcy moved. I want to try an experiment." 

"What sort of experiment?" There's a wariness in his face that she doesn't understand but has a feeling Darcy would. The younger woman was talented when it came to picking up on emotional subtext and profound connections. Jane thought about that, thought about what would Darcy do, what would she say in this situation? And when it comes to her, Jane smiles jauntily, reaches up and smacks his cheek (Darcy was going to fucking murder her - first getting a hug and now kissing his cheek, but Jane could live with that because it would mean Darcy is _back_ ), suddenly sort of excited and making plans. 

"My dear Captain, we're going to have a slumber party!" 

..... 

It's not that Darcy _dislikes_ Hogun because she doesn't, not really. She doesn't exactly _like_ him either (how could she when he has shot down every. single. attempt she's made at getting to know him the whopping three times their paths have crossed?), but he's Thor's bro which makes him Darcy's bro-by-proxy and she takes that shit as seriously as the Aesir thankyouverymuch. 

So, that disappointment when she first saw him this morning? Yeah, it wasn’t her most contentious moment ever. She had been so consumed with the thought of seeing _Thor_ , been so happy at the expectation of his smile and voice and hugs (because, dude, she needs **all** the hugs) that the reality of Hogun . . . well, it just fell a few miles short of a furlong. 

The (extremely, very short and fast) hour that she’d been given had been full of hurried dressing (a pair of comfortable and durable brown trousers, a periwinkle silk tunic beneath a thick leather jerkin, deerskin boots, the gray cloak and opal broach); packing of cheese, meat, and bread – enough for two days – along with a water skin full of water from Urd’s Well (“The waters are not meant for drink, little sister, but for the care and healing of your vessel body”), two tankards of beer and extra clothes; and good-byes.

This last came amid tears and many embraces. Baldr took her in first, brushing his thumbs along her forehead then kissing her palms and eyelids before pulling her flush against his (freaking hard as rock) body. He whisper-sang something into her hair and ears and against her lips; and she let him, understanding it for what it was: a blessing. And as he released her in increments, he told her that he had imbued some of his light into her to guide and keep her safe when the darkness fell; also, to take care of the opal broach, to never take it off even if she must string it across her neck for the magic of the stone would keep her spirit tethered to Asgard should the homunculus become damaged or destroyed. 

Nanna was full of tears and kissed Darcy’s mouth and cheeks, as they held each other like sisters. She smoothed Darcy’s hair and told her to remember her words from the night before, as they were her solemn vow. Nanna also said that she had weaved her own seid into the gray cloak, that it would shield Darcy from unwanted attention, danger and extreme cold. Then she knelt and laid her hands on Darcy’s boot-clad feet and sang while rocking back and forth upon the floor. 

Hogun had waited outside while his horse was fed and watered, citing that he was not worthy to enter such a place as Breitablik where no evil or impurity could pass (Baldr insisted the other man was being too modest but Hogun wasn’t hearing it). And when the hour drew to a close, Darcy (waylaid just a moment by Hlin who reminded her to call should she have a need and gave her matching bronze wrist cuffs that each hid three short knives, thin as No. 8 knitting needles) made her way outside alone.

Now, hours from Bleitablik, riding astride Hogun’s warhorse, Lettfeti (of the shiny black coat, blood red eyes, and pointy teeth), with Hogun leading, the sun had begun to set and Darcy could finally see the whole of the Asgardian sky with its planetary views and purpling night just the way Janie had described it.

There has been very little conversation though Darcy tried as Hogun was very clearly not in the talking mood. 

She supposed she would be the same way if someone had reacted so badly at seeing her, so she decided to pull up her big girl pants once again and offer, “I’m really sorry about how I reacted seeing you earlier. It’s not an excuse, but I was really hoping for Thor.”

Hogun merely grunts, pulling a little harder on Lettfeti’s reins. They are crossing a great, grassy field dotted with small houses (glorified huts) being tended by their people, having exited the city and boundary walls proper around midday. Darcy notes that Hogun seems to be in a hurry to get as far away from Valholl as humanly (Aesir-ly?) possible, tries to ask about that once or twice, but is shut down every time. 

“I really need to talk to him, you know, tell him about this cleaving business and being a spirit and ask him if he knows anyone that can help me figure this shit out so I can destroy the asshole that did it then get back to my body and my life on Midgard.”

Silence. “So, how are the other Warriors Three? Fandral settle down yet? Or at least, did he stop sexually harassing anything with legs?” A pause to see if he would respond and then, “How about Lady Sif? Is she doing okay? I heard about the thing with that bitch Lorelei. And Volstagg . . . is he still trying to drink everyone he meets under the table? Kids doing okay?”

No response. Darcy sighs petulantly, “Are you going to ignore me the whole way to wherever we’re going because I gotta warn you, your refusal to talk to me isn’t going to stop me from talking . . . or singing, and my singing voice ain’t that pretty.”

Nothing. _Can’t say I didn’t warn him_. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer, take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of –“

“Do you have any conception of the great danger you are in? There are eyes in the air, following our movements, and they be not benevolent.” The words are soft but cutting. Hogun is not looking at her, but she imagines if he were, it would be through a deep scowl. 

Darcy looks up and around but can see no eyes or trees or anything from the ground, really, save the expansive, darkening sky. Still, she trusts his word as easily and completely as Thor would. “I’m sorry Hogun. I’m taking all of this seriously, I really am; but I’m also trying to stay sane.”

A measure of tension releases between his shoulder blades. “This I know, Lady.”

To Darcy, it sounds like forgiveness and they pass the rest of the day in silence.

…..

Night comes and with it, the implementation of Jane’s plan.

“So where’s the keg and when do we play Truth or Dare?” This from Tony who prowls into the room fashionably late like there should be a platter of nachos with his name on it just inside and ready. He makes his disappointed face when there isn’t.

Jane is too busy setting up a video camera and giving Thor very specific directions for its operation to offer an answer. Vision is also there and has been glowering silently at Darcy’s prone body in a pinched – almost confused – sort of way since he arrived an hour ago. 

Clint is the one who responds to Tony with a gesture to the numerous chairs taking up all available floor space. “No keg, man. Just chairs and sleep aids.”

Tony frowns then points at Jane in accusation. “What the hell, Foster? This is officially the worst slumber party ever.”

“You’ve been here for three seconds,” Pepper points out from her seat on Darcy’s bed, filing Darcy’s toe nails.

“It’s not a party. It’s an experiment.” Natasha adds as she breezes in, clad in a loose gray Under Armor shirt and yoga pants. It’s the most casual Tony has ever seen her, and she still gives off deadly vibes (like, he knows she’s packing at least five guns on her . . . somewhere). 

Bruce is already sitting near Darcy’s head, arms crossed over his chest and back straight. “Jane believes Darcy tried to communicate with Steve before, when she was first affected. Thor has confirmed Darcy’s spirit is in Asgard just as his friend’s visions had attested. We’re apparently going to try to reach her collectively through the dreamscape.”

Jane gives a satisfactory little noise as a red light appears near the lens of the camera and focuses on the group assembled, “The Dreaming is a realm that flows through all of the nine realms. If only one of us can connect with Darcy, we might be able to find out how to help her from our end.”

Thor nods, “The Dreaming cannot be controlled or infiltrated by the Aesir or any other from the nine realms. If there is one place where we may speak freely of this business without alerting the enemy or endangering the Lady Darcy further, it is there.” The Asgardian prince takes a moment, meets each person’s gaze directly. “However, if my Lightning Sister is pulled into the Dreaming too deeply, she may be lost in that realm. It is imperative that should contact be made that it remains a short meeting.”

Stepping up to address those assembled, Steve has his Captain face on as he takes in the nine faces in the room. “We commence the operation at 2200 hours. Vision will be monitoring our mental functions and Darcy’s for any anomalies. Our objective is only to make contact with Ms. Lewis at this stage. If mission objective is accomplished, do everything in your power to leave the dream within five minutes of success. Upon waking, we will each meet with Dr. Foster to debrief and write a statement. Fury and Hill will be sound the assemble alarm should we be needed elsewhere.”

Tony shakes his head. “Seriously? No booze, food or party games?”

Pepper shoots him a look. “This is for our _friend_ , Tony.”

“You have ten minutes to get ready for operation commencement, Stark.” Steve adds sternly.

Meanwhile, listening to everyone settle into their chairs (Jane has the honor of The Chair) and watching Darcy most of all, Vision wonders to himself why no one seems to have noticed nor removed the dagger from Darcy’s chest.

…..

Night comes, the second since waking in Asgard (who knows how long it’s been on Midgard, Janie had told her the time shit was wonky and figured out a conversion factor but hell if Darcy remembers), and instead of sleeping in a large, soft bed, tonight she will sleep (or try to) under a hill, in a cave, with Hogun the Grim.

As the fire crackles and shadows (not hers, damn it) are thrown on the rock face of the cave they have settled into (after Hogun worked out some sort of deal with the dwarves living deeper into the hill), Darcy tentatively asks, “What was the vision you had? The one you mentioned to Baldr.”

Her guide is so still, she thinks he may have fallen asleep sitting up while polishing his sword, but his voice reaches her after long moments. “I have known of you, Darcy Lewis, since a young boy.” His eyes meet hers across the fire as he bites out, “You prove to be more infuriating than I feared.” He returns his attention to the fire, head tilting slightly, “More resilient than I had hoped.”

It didn’t answer her question; but wasn’t Frigga a seer? Hadn’t she taken a vow never to reveal the future? There must be a reason for that and maybe Hogun had taken a similar oath. In any case, she wasn’t going to nag him about it, so she changes tact.

“Can you tell me where we’re going?” Her fingers are restless, yearning for needles and yarn, so she lays her hands in the dirt and sifts the grains against her hands.

With a sigh, Hogun releases his muscles a little more into the rock behind him, falling into a slouch. “We make our way to Vanaheim, the world of my birth. There you will drink of the waters of Elivagar. Only then will my obligation be done.”

_Drink of what?_ “Why do I need to drink the water from Elivagar? Why can’t I just go to Valholl to ask Odin to fix me?”

Wearily, the Grim rubs one hand over his face. She can tell he’s deciding what to tell her. “There are many things you cannot know, Lady. The knowledge would affect the outcome of your quest which shall be long and perilous.”

Darcy stares at him, her face closed and eyes wide. “You know, for all that I always wanted my life to get the Disney treatment, I’m so not happy hearing that right now.”

“That you should not.” He seems to pause, all of him, from the tips of his long hair to the toe of his boot, before he becomes animated again, his serious gaze piercing into her soul (literally). “Though I have not met one till you, spirits are believed to be endowed with the power to see and speak truth as there is no more need for subterfuge without life. This is the only wisdom of the future I may grant to help your way.”

She nods slightly, tucking the words away with Baldr’s warnings, Nanna’s tears, and Hlin’s vow. “Thank you, Hogun. I really appreciate everything you’re doing.”

He nods back then falls into sleep, knowing the dwarves are keeping watch. Darcy doesn’t feel tired, doesn’t lie down, doesn’t sleep. She sits up and walks about their little camp and stares into the fire for an hour. Two. Three. With the shadows growing and the fire burning lower the darkness comes to tease along the edges of her vision until it’s like water, glinting in the half-light, easing in to flood the space, cover Hogun and steal her away.

She jumps up, suddenly afraid, hearing the waves as the dark water comes from where? _Did a river crest nearby?_ , filling every crevasse. She can’t see Hogun anymore and calls for him in a panic as the water reaches her chest, her neck (where she clutches the opal broach), and – takes a deep breath, closes her eyes – her head.

There are long moments of silence so complete, she thinks she’s drowned again and died for real. But then –

“Hello? Is someone out there?” The voice is familiar, comforting. Darcy opens her eyes to find herself in that same dream, sitting naked in the inky dark water with the black, starless sky overhead - the dream Baldr led her out of . . .or maybe she’s been here all along and hallucinated Asgard, Nanna, Baldr, Hogun. The uncertainty is a cold blade through her chest, through the wound that has scarred above her heart.

The voice sounds again, closer this time amidst the sucking sound of splashing water, louder, and she knows it. She knows the timbre and tone and inflection. It’s a voice that has commanded armies. Lead her friends through mission after mission, inspired the world on more than one occasion, and whispered into her most intimate dreams. 

Soon, she can make out an outline, smoky and made of shadow - the form of a man, short and skinny with a walk that speaks of purpose and character and --

But _no_. It _is_ a dream she’s in, yet – she’s absolutely sure – _the dream doesn’t belong to her_.

“Steve?” Her voice breaks as she scrambles on unsteady feet to stand, hands already reaching out to touch because she knows, she _knows_.

The form stalls before the voice, _Steve’s_ voice and equally broken, returns, “ _Darcy_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5: To Drink the Water
> 
> Mythology notes:  
> Breitablik - house of Baldr and Nanna, only the pure may enter, has silver ceilings and gold pillars  
> Baldr - son of Odin and Frigga, Thor's little bro, Norse god of light and love, married to Nanna and father to Forseti, god of justice  
> Nanna - wife to Baldr and mother of Forseti, god of Justice  
> Urd's Well - located beneath the root of Yggdrasil at Niflheim, the waters are the holiest of holy and grant Darcy a corporeal body  
> Hlin - servant of Frigga, generally sent to protect people Frigga wishes to save from danger; in this story, Hlin is currently in  
> the service of Baldr  
> Gullinkambi - a red rooster who will crow to wake the Gods and heroes of Valhalla when Ragnarok begins; he is apparently super confused in this story or he always crows to wake the gods ^_~  
> seid = magic, usually associated with the Vanir  
> Vanaheim / the Vanir - one of the nine realms, the home of an alternate set of gods. Asgard and Vanaheim were at war at the beginning of the world but a truce was settled when the Vanir Freya and Frey are given to Asgard. Frigga and Hogun are also Vanir. The Vanir differ from the Aesir in that they are primarily deities of fertility and gifted with magic as well as prophecy.  
> Lettfeti - one of the horses named in mythology but not attributed to any god, the name means "Light footed" so I'm giving him to Hogun ^_~  
> Elivagar - mythic rivers associated with the end of worlds (not Ragnarok but the physical limit of the world).
> 
> (Please note that Hogun is NOT part of Norse mythology and only exists in the Marvel universe).


	5. To Drink the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation Sleeping Beauty bears fruit; the dagger is identified; A second attack is made and Darcy doesn't actually drink anything XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully intended this to be up last night but I ended up babysitting my nieces, so it was 1 adult versus a 5 year old, 4 year old, and 3 month old ^_~ I'm sure you understand.

Natasha sleeps for all of 32.4 minutes during Operation: Sleeping Beauty (as Tony coined it); and spends the rest studying the dim room with its many occupants, taking a special interest in Vision who stands behind the tripod, eyes trained on Darcy as if trying to unpack the mysteries of the universe. She follows his line of sight from her seat next to the door and finds it zeroed in on the young woman's chest.

If it were anyone but Vision, she would think he was avidly appreciating Darcy's generous assets. But it _is_ Vision and his look is pinched, almost concerned, not admiring. She glances around at the others - all either fully asleep or on the edge - and subsides a little. Some sleep lighter than others; and regardless of the fact that she thinks this whole maneuver is foolish at best, it’s good to finally be doing something (and she's also somewhat _hopeful_ that an unlikely _happening_ will bring them closer to finding out how to get Darcy back). 

She bites her lip softly, rerouting her thoughts to Vision's intense study of Darcy's breasts. The robot/AI/infinity stone hybrid is standing there, eyes concentrated on this one spot, his hands at his sides clenching into fists and releasing repeatedly. Maybe he is analyzing and reanalyzing Darcy's vitals (but there are other machinery doing that), or maybe he is just really focused on her brain wave activity which isn't being monitored by the hospital. 

As a professional information broker, Natasha can't let it go nor can she directly ask without disturbing the other occupants in the room, so - utilizing her training - she very silently rises to her feet and makes her way around the perimeter of Darcy's bed. Nothing seems out of place or unusual (in addition to Darcy being in a coma in the first place); but she knows that appearances can be deceiving. It is something she has thought about quite a bit during down time when she has nothing to occupy her thoughts but Darcy's condition, training, and sparring. Mostly Darcy's condition. She hadn't realized just how much Darcy fills in the spaces that needed filling until she could no longer talk to her. She hadn't realized how much Darcy _did_ without prompting or question, just on _instinct_ , to give the lot of them some measure of normalcy in their very un-normal lives. 

Before . . . all of this, there had been impromptu birthday parties, special treats for a bad day, family dinners, surprise field trips, and girls' nights that Darcy took the liberty of arranging. The younger girl would also occasionally bake cookies or cakes or brownies for everyone. Sometimes she would put a casserole or lasagna or an unidentifiable (but no doubt delicious) crock pot stew in the fridge with a note saying 'Good job kicking Crapzilla's ass!' or 'On your left, Wilson!' or 'Great team work guys!' But it wasn't just comfort food Darcy used as currency; she was extremely tactile - giving hugs, kisses, patting and grabbing hands often without warning while still discerning of the prospective receiver's comfort level and needs. More than once, she had gone in to hug Nat, taken one look at the assassin's face, and froze before redirecting to just a verbal ‘you were totally kick ass’ or ‘I’m sorry stuff went to shit’. And - always - not only did Darcy listen when you talked to her about serious things or otherwise, she heard and if you really needed a pick-me-up or some other type of support you were too bone-headed to ask for, she would step up without any thought of recompense to take care of you. 

That's why Natasha misses her so much. She has not known many people in her life that give so freely without expecting something - often entirely _too much_ \- in return. Darcy was, is the bright exception in a dark, dark world. 

And she will be that bright again. Natasha will not allow that light to be extinguished. 

Prowling around the bed again and again, she keeps one eye on Vision and his unwavering stare then, with a gesture to the youngest Avenger, very carefully reaches to the collar of Darcy's hospital gown and slips a hand inside and down, feeling along with fingertips down the brunette's breast bone. Nothing but smooth skin. Vision is now looking at Natasha, nods his head. His expression is generally bland; but now his look is one of realization and concern. 

_Interesting._

Natasha feels along the other girl's breast bone again, this time pressing her entire palm down with gentle pressure and -- immediately straightens -- a small area of skin is cold to the touch. Vision is now at her side and extends a hand to grab at the air just above Darcy's sternum, thumb down as if he's grasping something cylindrical, something suited to an offensive grip, something that could be stuck in a person's chest, _like a knife_. She immediately braces a hand to his arm, shaking her head 'no'. If something is there, they first need to be able to see it, assess the damage done (Darcy is still _alive_ so she's willing to leave it be for now), and then decide if it can be removed without causing more harm - especially if it's some alien or magic item (which - considering the circumstances - it most likely _is._ )

Vision nods slowly but the concern does not leave his gaze. 

Steve stirs across the bed, sweat dotting his brow even as he sighs in his sleep, " _Darcy_." 

_I hope the camera is getting this_ , Natasha thinks, shooing Vision back to his place near the camera. She makes a mental note to retrieve the tape before Tony can watch it, before moving back to her seat. It’s just when she's about to sit that she notices it. 

Darcy's hand, the one closest to Steve, is turned palm up. Natasha would swear on a limb that it was palm down only moments ago. 

She rises again, filled with something hot and itchy, takes the hand that moved and places it palm down once again then watches. Slow, painfully slow, with straining, twitching muscle, the arm from elbow down twists, turns, over with fingers jumping blindly. Feeling her heart jumping just as nervously in her chest, Natasha takes the hand again, placing it on the girl's midsection, watches as the hand rides up and down with her friend's breath before the arm flops over, puppet-like, hand splayed and fingers stretched toward Steve. 

Natasha had thought nothing could surprise her anymore, but this does. "I hope you're getting this," she says as calmly as she can out loud to the camera. Because there's no way anyone is going to believe without evidence. 

She can barely believe it herself (because good things are all the more valuable for their scarcity). (It doesn't stop her from wiping the mist from her eyes as she feels hope for the first time since that awful Thursday when she thought she'd lost yet another dear, dear friend). 

.....

"This is so weird." It's obvious but needs to be said. Darcy stands, calf deep in the dark water of Steve's dream and takes him in blurrily across the shortening distance as he wades toward her - all 5 foot 4 inches of him with his 1940s figure and 1940s plaid and 1940s suspenders, looking like the BEFORE picture on page 268 in her 7th grade American history textbook wedged into the World War II lagniappe margin about Operation Rebirth, still fucking beautiful, determined, clear-eyed and necessary. 

She can't move her feet, which seem locked in a vacuum of mud so she reaches out with her arms, her hands, wanting nothing more than to touch him - to be held and hold. But he doesn't take her in his arms like she's hoping for. Instead, his hands reach just as desperately to snake through her hair and pull her head toward him, meeting her in a kiss that is unexpected, needy and aggressive and burns from the inside out. It is the kind of kiss that takes no prisoners while giving everything away; that speaks when no words can do justice; and heals as much as it tears apart. 

Her hands grip him close, fingers digging into the thin shoulders and pulling on the material of his shirt. She can feel the pressure of his hands first cradling her head then moving down to pull her tight against his body in a move that is at once familiar for its purpose and foreign for the lack of restraint. Because, the truth is, they have done this (and more) before - beginning a few years ago, just after the Battle of New York. 

They had met on the road - she had just left Culver to begin the trek with Jane to London and he was on a road trip to see modern America. His anonymity wasn't a given, there were Youtube videos going around showing his cowl-less face during the Centauri invasion, taking charge and shouting orders; but Darcy had been fucking busy between being carted off to Tromso then coming back to graduate and move to London in short order, so she hadn't been up on the current viral videos at the time. 

They ended up at the same cafe during the lunch rush. She had been bold and approached him about sharing his table. And through chatting and laughing and awkward flirting, they had ended up in a nearby hotel where Darcy had experienced the best sex of her life (and not just because she could tell he actually gave a shit if she enjoyed herself). 

She had been cool with it being a one night stand (her first and only - again, boundaries), was okay with leaving it there on the road, but then Shield fell and the subsequent data dump and suddenly everyone knew it was him, the real deal and original. At first, she'd been mortified that she had molested a national icon, someone who was older than her grand-father; but she eventually made peace with it, even developed a sense of pride that someone so . . . larger than life but also sweet and grounded, found her attractive.

And then she had moved into the Tower. 

Where - after being officially introduced - they had continued their prior acquaintance, falling into bed a handful of times but never with a label - not even friends with benefits (she had entertained a sneaking suspicion he wasn't really experienced in relationships and - to be fair - neither was she). She had done her level best not to get her hopes up when it became apparent he wasn't open to dating - especially as she developed a very strong _like_ for him as they got to know each other – warts and all. 

She didn't trust men easily (her past boyfriends, turns out, had been more interested in her body than her as a person; she knew she deserved better), but she did trust him instinctively - not because of the spangles and shield but because he exuded reliability and trustworthiness. The way he _listened_ and showed _interest_ when she spoke; was willing to respectfully debate her views if he disagreed and never underestimated her; how he was always thinking of everyone else, so dedicated to doing good even when it wasn't the easy thing; and was strong enough to fight when the chips were down if no other avenues were available to protect what was valuable and right were just a few things that made her comfortable and willing to let him in. 

That he could be completely hilarious in a dry, trolling kind of way was just icing and endeared her all the more. 

Then about six months ago, after Ultron and the Sokovia nightmare (Darcy had been on the lecture circuit with Jane at the time with her spiffy new degree and spiffier new title with pay), he had unceremoniously told her that he wasn't interested in a relationship or any sort of romantic commitment. He simply wasn't ready, didn't know if he ever would be, and felt that whatever it was between them should end. 

Simply, he had to shift focus on his search for Bucky. And she understood (she would totally drop everything if Jane went missing), told him it was okay even as she paled and swallowed against the lump in her throat. He had been so apologetic and sincere and concerned and nervous, she had mustered up all of her courage to keep from crying as her heart broke harder than she thought was possible. 

They had kept it (barely) platonic ever since, speaking briefly to each other when necessary (to be fair, she didn't think Steve had been outright avoiding her as he was only in the Tower a few days every few months), never venturing into a room together where they would be alone (that part was mostly her, afraid she would take the opportunity to dump all of her angst on him and become that crazed ex-girlfriend-that-was-never-even-a-girlfriend). 

Everyone knew Darcy was "in-crush" with Steve (although she tried, so fucking hard, to tone it down and let it go), but no one had known of their tryst. Not even Jane. She isn't even sure why. He had never asked her to hide it. The secrecy had just happened naturally. 

But now, now, in this dream world, he is kissing her like a man dying of thirst and her the only drink of water, and even though confusion courses through her over what he hopes to accomplish by kissing her like this in this place, she is absolutely crystal clear on the subject of her own feelings as something previously restless within her subsides and she gives as good as she gets. 

He releases her suddenly, presses his forehead to hers, his hands running along her flanks, shaking. "Tell me you're okay." His voice is like shattered glass. It literally hurts to hear him like this, and she closes her eyes against the image of his wet cheeks. 

"I'm okay." She breathes it to him, no less true for its softness. She _is_ okay, as okay as she can be in this situation. 

His entire body shudders in her arms as he pulls back to study her, the face of the Captain breaking out from the man. "Do you know where you are?" 

She suddenly understands he means to debrief her, and yeah, she would prefer to talk about them, tell him how she feels because she's all too aware of how precarious her position is and doesn't want to die without regrets, but she also gets that they don't know when this dream will end, if they'll be able to connect again. The urgency is palpable and time is not on their side. "I'm in a cave with Hogun. We made it out of the city, on the other side of the wall going . . . west, I think - whatever direction the sun sets in Asgard. He says I have to go to Elivagar and drink the water there in Vanaheim. I'm not sure what that's going to do, but he seems to think we need to be as far away from Valholl as possible." 

Steve looks a little perplexed at that. "Thor spoke to Odin. He swore he would find you and let you stay with him for as long as we need to figure this out. Didn't he contact you?"

She shakes her head, feeling a strange pressure at the base of her spine. "No. The only people I've had contact with in this form are Baldr, Nanna, Hlin, and Hogun, really." And then, a wave of the hand, "But I was only at Baldr's house for like a day and a half, and I was sleeping or trying to the majority of the time." 

"Okay." His voice is strong now, whatever emotion that had wrecked it so badly ruthlessly pushed back down and hidden away. "Okay. I'll let Thor know what's going on. He was hoping to catch up to you while you were with Baldr; but Odin advised him that the person who did this to you might be trying to follow you and his presence would give away your location." 

His hands are resting at her mid-back, she can't help but notice. "I guess it was too much to hope that the culprit was human," she sighs. "Any clues as to who it could be or why?"

"We're searching down every avenue but no. Is there anything you remember - anything at all?" 

She starts to say no when his eyes dip downward (she has to give him props for not honing in on her exposed breasts from the first, it is just another thing that she likes and admires about him, how respectful he is) and his brows pinch, rough fingers tracing the scar in the middle of her chest. "What's this?" Warmth tingles with the touch, erupting with visible tiny sparks of green. 

They lock gazes for a moment, surprised. 

"It doesn't do that when I touch it," Darcy says, her fingers taking the same path as his to no effect. Steve lays his hand there, just over the scar, and green light seeps through his fingers. 

"Do you have any other scars?" His words are grim. The tone reminds her of Hogun. 

"No. Actually, the scars on my real body aren't reflected on this one at all." 

His eyes bore into hers and the look in them pins her to the ground with its intensity. "Do you have any idea why you would have a scar like this on your . . . " he struggles a bit, searching out an appropriate word, "spirit?" 

She begins to shake her head, but that pressure at the base of her spine builds to encase her entire backbone and neck leaving her immobilized. She tries to get out a negative word but chokes on the syllables; and that's when she remembers. "Oh my god." It had happened so fast it was over before she could comprehend, but now it plays back in her head in slow motion. She can hear the whisper of a suggestion then see the glint of gold and green as Thor bellows her name and she turns toward him, feel the drive of the blade before she falls into nightmares. 

But there's no time to tell him all of that as the pressure becomes a strong pull down into the muck beneath the water; and as she begins to sink, her arms fall from Steve's form, hands grasping weakly at his suspenders, as she takes in his torn expression and tells him solemnly, brokenly (because she has to, he has to know, _please don't take this as another burden you need to carry_ ), "If I don't make it back, I want you to know that I love you." 

She hears him yelling her name as if from a great distance, feel his hands trying and failing to pull her up before her head slips under, is buried and everything fades to black. 

.....

Hogun rises with the dawn, nudged awake by Lettfeti's nuzzle resting on his shoulder. The horse smells of wet and mildew and horse dung. The first thing he sees when his eyes adjust to the dimness of the cave, is Darcy lying sprawled, face down on the ground, her hands clutched beneath her and her hair spread across her profile. 

"Darcy." He's at her side in an instant, shaking and calling her to no avail. He's only too aware that she has complained countless times during their hours of travel that she has not felt tired since waking in her current form; and there is a heaviness in the air that tastes of something amiss. She does not stir at his vocal entreaties, so he flips her, takes in the gray cast of her skin, the rigid set of the hand holding to her broach, and immediately slaps her in the face, taking care to control the force of the hit. 

She groans and rubs at her cheek before opening her eyes to slits and leveling an indignant glare at him. "What the fuck, Hogun?" Her coloring is better but still alarming. 

He sits back on his haunches and offers, "It rains." 

"If that's your way of saying 'Good morning', you suck at mornings." That baleful look is still there, along with a lingering droop about her shoulders. He watches her critically, noting the signs of lackluster energy and worries exhaustion does not suit her at all. 

"Never have I claimed to be particularly accomplished as such." He lifts her up, cradles her for a moment to judge her weight and muscle tension, then deposits her on stone. That she makes no comment, no rejection or complaint of the man-handling only serves to convince him further of her diminished well-l being. "We must depart presently; however, you seem ill. Can you travel?" 

Darcy's hands are everywhere, on her face, her forehead, swiping at her hair, patting her shoulders and thighs. Her eyes are similarly taken with movement. He kneels before her, takes her hands and her attention. "Darcy. You are safe now." Assurance has never been his talent, but he tries, injecting what small measure of kindness into his voice. 

She visibly swallows but does not look elsewhere. Her courage is a live thing, warming his palms that rest on hers, transforming the color of her eyes from ocean to steel. "I think I was pulled into a dream. Steve's dream. And I think I remember being stabbed . . . on Midgard." 

There is a tremor, a small one that vibrates against his fingertips where her pulse should have been. He knows what she speaks of, knows quite a lot about her current predicament, actually. However, he's also seen the calamity that could befall her and the nine realms should he encumber the path laden before her. It is enough to engender his silence on the matter, though his resolve does weaken - however slightly - in the face of her disquietude. "The Prince made no mention of a blade." 

"It's . . . there was a voice, a whisper." She's visibly struggling to speak, the cords of her neck visible and pulsing with the strain. He suddenly feels a stripe of pride of this little human at her persistence, the determination in her gaze to communicate what she now remembers. "It said no one would see or speak of the cleaver until it was too late." Her head bows as she takes deep breaths that are most likely unnecessary. 

They must leave soon. Lettfeti is growing restless as the day grows and the rain falls thick. He says as much to her and frowns tightly when she retorts, "This is one of those things you won't comment on because it has to do with a vision, right?" 

He doesn't dispute the charge as he pulls her to standing, straightens her cloak and smooths his fingers over the length of her hair. "Stay close today and rest." 

She nods and soon enough they are making their way out of the cave, one hand holding onto hers and the other guiding his horse. The soft rush of rainfall can be heard after a small time. He can feel the burst of humidity and spray before he sees the gray sheet marking the plains. 

Looking back at his charge, Hogun grimaces and gestures for the lady to raise her hood. He can only hope the ravens take no notice of their movements, to reach the mountains by noon, to dispatch Darcy before nightfall. The more expedient her removal from Asgard, the sooner he can rejoin his comrades to investigate and bring the cur to the altar of vengeance. Of course, he has the hollow feeling that neither shall be fulfilled. (Anything and everything can go wrong in battle no matter how well-equipped or practiced the warrior be, no matter how well-planned the tactics and counters, no matter how many contingencies.) 

Winter is coming and the rain is cold, stinging against his exposed face and hands, seeping down his water-proofed outer layers and soaking into the collar of his tunic, the rough material of his trousers. The grass below them yields to mud and puddle, Lettfeti's hooves digging in then pulling out with audible slurps. When he realizes after many hours, Darcy has uttered neither peep nor word since leaving the cave, Hogun glances behind to find the lady barely holding to the horse's neck, hood back and water streaming unchecked over the bone white skin, through the dark tresses. Her eyes are unflinchingly open as they take in the falling droplets. 

For a human, so fragile and brief, he cannot deny she is beautiful. There are many females among the aesir who possess even more beauty but lack the bright warmth Darcy gives off so effortlessly and wields so deftly, inspiring affection and protection. He does not want to see that light extinguished and so keeps walking, keeps guiding his horse with its precious cargo. 

Despite the less than ideal weather, they make good time traveling – seemingly aimless – zigzagging randomly across open plains. At midday, they stop - briefly - for luncheon beneath a copse of brown and gray rock. They have made it to the mountain’s edge, the grassy plain giving way to dry rock and earth, and the rain has been left behind. Darcy's coloring has returned to rosy - as if veins and blood now run beneath the water-born skin - and her demeanor seems less burdened despite the water-logged heaviness of their garments. They talk little (the lady's silence is contemplative, her eyes clouded with rain and distance) as he takes up the last of the bread and cheese, chews a bit of jerky, then digs into their packs for the remaining tankard Nanna had gifted. 

It is not there. His hands remain empty of refreshment. Checking and rechecking the various bags, packs, and pouches of vittles, necessities and supplies again, Hogun entertains the extreme of eternal consternation. _Where in Helheim had the beer gone?_

"I left it for the dwarves." Darcy's voice reaches the deprivation haze his mind has dangerously become. There is an audible crack as his eyes level the girl, sparking with anger all out of proportion to the cause. 

"And why would you do such a thing? What manner of torment were you thinking, girl?" It's the first time he's raised his voice to her, and she visibly rears back, not to retreat but stiffen her spine and tip her head back a smidge, just enough to show resistance and challenge. 

"They let us stay in their home. It's only right that they get a gift in return for the hospitality." 

"It is not the way we do things, lady." How does one explain the hierarchy of a world such as this one? Even as vanir, he is a step below the aesir, no matter that he is accepted into their ranks. Dwarves are of an even lower rung and are not allowed the pleasures of the aesir. So it was carved on the All-father’s powerful staff long ago. 

Darcy's rosy mouth purses as her face pales into a white that rivals the purest of flowers, eyes flashing as if with lightning. (Hogun swallows down a grin, knows Thor could not be prouder of his Lightning sister and niece even if he were here to witness her ire). "I don't understand why it's such a big deal. It's just some freaking beer!" 

He grits his teeth, not really caring for the argument but unwilling to leave off just yet. He can admit, it’s petty and beneath him, but there is a force driving them to this rage, some element that crackles around them as stinging as the cold rain. "The offer establishes precedent. Dwarves were created to serve the aesir through mettle and convenience, and while gratitude is, indeed, deserved, we do not bring them gifts that are the privilege of the aesir." 

She's standing now, every inch of her reflecting indignation. "Then things need to fucking _change_." 

Hogun nods, solemnly and in agreement. It is something his comrades - especially the Prince - feel strongly about as well. However, now is not the time to campaign. "Unfortunately, I am not able to command such." 

" _Then who the fuck is in charge_?!"

The plaintive, frustrated yell echoes through the valleys and above them even as a profound hush falls. Darcy immediately shuts her mouth and shrinks in upon herself, eyes to the ground and expression pinched. Though he has an idea of what must be going through her head, he cannot help her in this struggle of words and knowledge and ideas. She has not yet fully embraced her new nature, the talent shedding her humanity has bestowed. 

He allows her a moment to collect herself and shrugs off the biting dryness of thirst and the dark vestige of anger. "We must keep going." The prolonged stillness grates along his nerve endings. "Wolves are not unusual in this area. I would get you to Vanaheim before they catch our scent." 

She nods, dumbly, and turns toward Lettfeti who has taken his own food and relieved himself nearby. As Hogun assists her to mount, he barely manages to hold back a laugh when he hears her mutter something about claiming all of the Thor-and-Jane-cuddles when she gets home. He does smile though, and he's only too glad she cannot see. 

.....

Jane can't see it. 

_It's just here_. Vision holds up a white placard above Darcy's chest with the words written neatly above an arrow drawn down. Natasha is nodding, unable to utter a word about the supposed knife in Darcy's chest. Jane thinks maybe the lack of sleep and overabundance of worry has finally resulted in full on insanity for the two of them even as she bends near Darcy's bed to look across the very normal, very _not-stabbed-or-sporting-a-knife_ chest.

Bruce is taking pictures from different angles with a Stark pad and Polaroid camera to cover both mediums - digital and film. If the human eye can't see it, maybe a mechanical eye will. You know, if anything's actually _there_.

It's not that Jane doesn't believe the AI/Mind stone hybrid and the Black Widow, it's that she's really had enough of the weird shit and needs a break that she isn’t going to be getting. She's almost kind of pissed about it all, actually; because they are getting fucking NO WHERE near solving this puzzle and Darcy's life is on the line, and it's nearly fucking noon, she still hasn't been able to review the tape . . . disc . . . whatever or debrief anyone who isn't Vision and Natasha (which grates on her _science!_ nerve so hard because new data is like a warm frosted cinnamon pop-tart that you know is bad for you in large doses but you just can't stop from eating the entire fucking case). That and - she can admit it - she's feeling horribly bitter that she didn't get a Darcy dream, can't remember dreaming about anything; and what the shit does that say about her as a friend? a scientist? WHAT? 

"Jane." It's a choked version of her name, coarse and pained like a rough cough. Bruce is staring hard at the Stark pad screen and a shiny new printed Polaroid clutched between two fingers. Natasha edges over to look over his shoulder and gasps. Vision merely shrugs nonchalantly and says, "I tried to tell all of you; however, something stayed my tongue." 

Natasha had said something similar when she approached Jane with the possibility, growing more and more frustrated as she stuttered and tripped over nonsensical syllables until Vision found a placard and began writing on it with a dry-erase marker, "Darcy was stabbed. The knife is still in her chest. I do not know why you cannot see it or why we cannot speak of it." 

Scurrying to see what they are all seeing, Jane actually screams. 

Because there it is in glaring technicolor, a golden green-jeweled hilt sticking out of Darcy's chest; and when she shifts her line of vision to take in Darcy's form in real time, she can suddenly see it, bright and glistening, as if it has always been there. "We need to get it out." 

It comes out rough with fresh tears because - honestly - she doesn't even know what to think or hypothesize anymore. _Who the fuck did this and why to Darcy?_ Sure, the younger woman was connected to Jane's work, discovering Thor and - now - all of the Avengers; but the information she may have been exposed to should have made her a kidnapping candidate not marked for murder. You can't get intel out of a corpse! This attack, this complex web of destruction to Darcy's body, life, even her _immortal soul_ spoke of a personal vendetta, of the vilest kind of hatred. The likes of which Jane is positive Darcy never invited nor deserves. 

Bruce stays her hand as she reaches for the ornate hilt, her fingers brushing over warm, pulsing gold that just moments previously was invisible and insubstantial. "We don't know what removing it will do to her. Pulling it out could possibly finish the job and kill her." She flinches when she sees the green anger in this eyes. "We need to get Thor over here." He leaves, presumably to fetch her Asgardian lover. 

Natasha agrees as does Vision who suggests having Wanda brought in to assess the situation again. Jane just collapses in The Chair and waits. The Captain had asked to speak to Thor in private upon waking before speaking to Jane; Barton had been called away on a mission during the night; and Tony had protested having any dreams and gone in search of coffee with Pepper in tow. It was only moments after the room had cleared out a little that Natasha and Vision had dropped the proverbial bomb. Bruce had - surprisingly - been more accepting of the stabbing than Jane initially. 

The astrophysicist looks at him now as he returns alone, body language closed and eyes flashing green and wonders if she should say something. He is usually self-aware enough to get to the safe room before hulking out; however, even Jane has to admit these are extremely emotionally distracting circumstances. 

And maybe that's what this is all about: psychological warfare by attacking the least protected of the team, breaking the Avengers through confusion, exhaustion, and prolonged grief, distraction in the form of a downed and well-loved comrade. 

But the method and its far-reaching implications still don't make sense, it still doesn't explain the stealing of Darcy's soul or the lack of a follow-up attack. 

She's musing on the jumble of questions still unanswered when Thor enters the room, his visage as angry as she's ever seen. The air crackles with his power as he zeroes in on the dagger, stomps over to the bed, grasps the hilt and pulls the blade out of Darcy's body in one smooth motion. Darcy's body shudders and sighs - almost . . . relieved - but her vital information remains stable. Jane hand covers the place where the dagger had been, feeling for damage that isn’t there, as she looks up to the resident god of thunder. 

"What is it?" She needs to know how this thing could be invisible and insubstantial one second and so very real the next, needs to understand why it was left in her friend and what its removal means. 

Thor's face betrays only suppressed rage as he glances at Steve who has just entered, wide eyes taking in the dagger in Thor's hand. "Steven and I leave for Asgard now." 

"So what? The blond squad gets all the fun?" Tony steps into the little room with Pepper, hands filled with coffee drinks. 

Steve nods, a flinty look in his eyes that counterpoints Thor's. "We'll be the least conspicuous, and most of us need to stay here to protect the world." 

The billionaire scoffs, muttering something about stars and spangles; but Jane knows that Tony knows, Steve is entirely too smart to wear his usual uniform and most likely will borrow some of Thor's spare Asgardian clothes and armor. And though she knows Thor must have a good reason to want to leave this second, her curiosity forces persistence. "What's going on? What's with the dagger? Is it magic?" (Of course it is. She knows this but her brain is not working at full capacity without Darcy to see to her rest and care.)

That dear face, usually so jovial, is hard and unforgiving. "This blade," the words are spit with disgust, "is known as the Soul Cleaver and Devourer of Souls and has been in my father's private treasure vault at Valholl since before I was born, believed too dangerous to be put to use. It is undoubtedly the cause of Darcy's current misfortune." 

It is enough of an explanation for now, enough to know why he wants to go to Asgard in such a hurry. Thor loves Darcy as family, looks after her best interests with a dedication that would threaten a lesser woman. But Jane gets it, because she loves Darcy just as much, is just as dedicated. She embraces him, tells him she's going too; but he shakes his hand, holds her to him, and says, "I know you wish to embrace our sister again, my love; however, larger numbers shall only be a danger and hindrance in this mission The Captain and I shall venture alone to Vanaheim, which Darcy has revealed to Steven as her current destination, before our enemy may be alerted to our presence, and then we shall do quick work to mend the connection between her body and soul." 

Natasha, sitting on the edge of the bed and languorously sharpening a wicked-looking serrated knife, glances at them. "And then you'll find the enemy and bring them here." She doesn't say _bring them to justice_ , doesn't have to. 

The enemy . . . _is it Odin or some agent of Odin's court?_ Jane doesn't ask, doesn't really care as long as she has a say in their punishment because they will be punished. She's thinking being dumped in a black hole sounds good . . . or locking them in a room with Natasha . . . maybe Bruce or _hell_ just let everyone have a turn (and no, it doesn’t escape her that Steve has – apparently – made a dream connection with Darcy and she’s absolutely _hungry_ to talk to him about it; but all things in their own time). "Is there a way to do that? Put her back together?" Jane wants to believe there is, but can't think of any principle that would allow it. Thor opens his mouth to answer but -- "We'll find a way," Steve answers from the doorway, his voice brooking no argument, eyes settling over them and colored like danger. "Failure is not an option." 

......

Considering she _thinks_ (seriously, she can't be sure of the real-ness of almost _anything_ anymore what with the nightmaring and the spiriting and the Asgarding and - now - confessioning all over the fucking place in the Dreaming (totally deserves the capital because reasons) she might have told Steve-in-a-dream-but-also-real-Steve that she is in love with him like a stage five clinger and fucked up any and all possibility of continued friendship with said Steve and has been thinking about it _all fucking day_ , running through the naked conversation word for word a million times and getting more and more consternated (totally a word), and feeling like _shit_ over it, Darcy finds herself kind of weak and tired as she plods along on Lettfeti's back (fucking BARE back with all the slipping and sliding that results but the horse doesn't seem to mind her grabbing along his flanks and squeezing her legs around him at all because he's awesome, _so_ awesome. She totally nicknamed him Feti). 

She's still tired - practically wilted really and splayed across the horse, not really caring as the coarse strands of black mane hair keep getting caught between her lips and teeth - as they begin down the mountainside, fucking straight up black space gleaming with faraway stars on the other side like some artistic kindergartner's glitter-strewn art project. "Yo Hogun," she raises a limp hand as if that's going to get his attention (it doesn't), "where, exactly, is Vanaheim?" It has to be said because, dude, she is not equipped to deal with dead space, not now, not before, not ever.

He looks back at her briefly and frowns before raising his arm and pointing imperiously in a northwesterly direction (that is, she _thinks_ it's northwesterly - Asgardian basic measurements and compass points continue to elude her understanding) toward . . . . more dead space. _WTF_????? 

Darcy squawks, lifts her head up with some effort and narrows her eyes behind chunks of ratty, air-curling hair. "Are you fucking kidding? Because if you are, it's not funny."

"I assure you, I am quite serious." Hogun's grip on the reins tightens visibly as he gently guides Lettfeti down a particularly steep drop, hooves skidding on loose rocks. Darcy's head falls back to rest against the horse's neck. 

"Okay . . . okay. You understand why I'm having a hard time processing right? I mean, how the hell are we getting there? I didn't think Asgardian's could survive in space without a life support system any more than us lowly humans could." 

He doesn't answer, isn't pulling the reins anymore, isn't moving a muscle as he looks out down and over to the right. She follows his gaze but doesn't see anything all that interesting, just more gray/brown rock, a little grass, some leafless, gnarled trees. All in all it's pretty barren, and they've been lucky, seeing only two other groups of travelers since the morning through the rainy plains and now the mountains. Beneath her, Lettfetti's muscles tense and shudder but he doesn't move, doesn't whinny or prance or rear back. He's nervous but not panicked . . . or maybe Asgardian horses are all as immune to panic as Asgardian people. 

Darcy pushes herself up with hands layered between the horse's shoulders. The muscles beneath her hands coil further, readying for a word, a command, or _something_ but Hogun remains ever vigilant, intent on a certain area, hand clasped to the sword at his side. Darcy scans the area behind them, before them, around them and still sees nothing, but there is a hush in the air that sets her on edge, a preternatural quiet that denies 'nothing is here, keep moving' while warning of present danger. 

Then she sees it, a movement about fifty feet away. Then another and another, feels eyes on her from behind and looks into yellowed eyes that seem to glow with unholy light from a feral lupine face full of bared, sharp teeth. 

Wolves, but unlike the dog-sized animals she saw in the zoo behind reinforced plastic and barred enclosures. These wolves were nearly the size of Lettfeti who was already rather large for a horse - not quite the size of a Clydesdale. She bites back a scream and looks to Hogun. He is still staring intently at - what she supposes is the alpha - the first one to move, approaching slowly with saliva dipped fangs. The way he holds himself implies a challenge, the man and wolf in the midst of a silent battle for dominance. 

Lettfeti's body shakes beneath her with the restraint of waiting, and Darcy wants to comfort him, wants to move, be away from here, can feel the hot breath of the nearest wolf rolling down her neck as he approaches from the side and another, behind. 

And then suddenly, the alpha is in the air and lands on Hogun's neck, blood spraying Letfetti's flanks and Darcy's hand, leg, face with a shower of warm red. The sword swings and reins drop and Letfetti's on his hind legs, kicking out with the front then lunging for wolf flesh with his own razor teeth and Darcy is grasping for purchase. Through the panic driven rush in her ears, Darcy hears Hogun give the order, "Get her to the portal!!!!" 

Breathless and scared, Darcy watches through a wide-eyed blur, hands digging so deeply into the horse's hide, she apologizes softly in a helpless sob, as the world becomes meaningless lines and color streams and relentless wind. She feels more than hears the near indistinguishable hoof-beats of Hogun's apparently super-powered horse and fights to maintain her dubious seat (and tries to assimilate the speed of everything, of wanting to jump off the horse and run back to Hogun’s aid, of needing to know her friend is okay, accepting that it’s impossible and that this wasn’t a random wolf stalking). There is a wolf following them, she can feel the heaviness of his gait trailing just at the outside of one ankle and prays he doesn't take it into his mind to bite her foot off. She doesn't want her spirit guts all over the side of the mountain. Or Letfetti's or Hogun's. 

She bites her lips against the hysteria rising at the thought and wets Letfetti's back with her tears, the moisture drying with the wind faster than she can produce it. Breath comes in quickened spurts and her mind runs in circles of _It's gonna be okay, it's gonna be okay, everything's gonna be okay_ even though she's not convinced it will be okay; and when she notes the darkening beneath the horse, beneath them, she knows she needs to make a decision of how to deal with this before they run out of land. 

It occurs to her this might be a good time to call out to Hlin, but when she opens her mouth to do so, her tongue feels heavy and clumsy. She swallows down the panic that would normally have her heart racing and her body in a cold sweat, leans down and whispers in Letfetti’s ear. “You can stop now, boy.” Because the wolf isn’t flagging, has persisted and kept up. She knows it will not rest until it has done its work and the knowledge has her feeling tired again, sad and resigned.

The horse slows to a normal gallop, and she can see a narrow point in the path exiting out to a beach of rock and space dust, a disk suspended a short distance away from the opening with runes carved into the border stones made of a glassy rock that remind her of obsidian and black opal all afire with rainbows in the grain.

Letfetti gets through the way before stopping suddenly, throwing a screaming Darcy from his back just as the wolf jumps, maw wide open to intercept her. A calm settles over her nerves and she knows what to do, what to say, how to say it and what it means as she hits the ground and rolls to her feet (the impact fucking _hurts_ and she doesn’t have any adrenaline to take it away but she gets the hell up anyway, one of the needle-like knives freed from one wrist cuff). 

The wolf growls, its teeth glinting like gold in the low-light of dusk. Darcy stands as tall as her vertically challenged height will allow and says loudly and clearly, “I’m not afraid of you.”

The wolf tilts its head as if questioning then howls and leaps toward her neck. She is ready and sees everything in slow motion, brings up the knife and screams as she drives the blade into the beast’s eye. His bottom teeth catch the bronze at her wrist and her palm cuts on the incisors but she is otherwise unharmed as the wolf falls to the ground, whining and writhing in pain for the lost eye.

Feeling like a completely different person, Darcy approaches the animal without an ounce of sympathy. “Go. Go to your master. Tell him what happened here. Tell him I am not afraid of him or any of his servants.”

Coming back to herself, shaking, she backs away slowly, looking to Lettfeti who nods as if telling her all is well with him before he turns and sprints away, presumably to his own master, Hogun, just as the portal explodes with light, taking Darcy away in a shower of comets, rainbows, and stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> In Norse mythology, after creation, Odin carves the laws of hierarchy on his spear which establishes the aesir at the top, closely followed by the vanir and elves while the dwarves, giants, etc. are at the bottom. In nearly ALL the myths, the flow of goods and services always flow one way, from the dwarves/giants/elves/whoever to the aesir. The aesir don't do anything for anybody but themselves and (if it pleases them) mankind. And if ever that order is threatened, somebody dies in a brutal fashion.
> 
> Darcy and Hogun's argument ends with Darcy asking who is in charge. This is a nuanced question that will be coming back to haunt everyone one way or another as the story goes on.
> 
> The dagger in Darcy's chest actually has the soul infinity stone from the comics in the hilt, hence the mentions of green. I'm going to explain more about it in coming chapters ^_^
> 
> Per the MCU website, "There are natural nexus portals that exist on Asgard, due to deposits of the wormhole-sensitive, crystal-like material used in the construction of the Rainbow Bridge, and these portals are in direct contact with the roots of Yggdrasil, the tree-like, cosmic grid that connects the Nine Realms. "
> 
> If you would like to hear the music I primarily listen to while writing this story (or just wanna hear some epic stuff), you can find two of my go to's here from the Seven Deadly Sins soundtrack: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbenQ4c9liU
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbenQ4c9liU
> 
> They are both "extended" so it's just the same track over and over again on loop.
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter 6: Frey of Alfheim


	6. Frey of Alfheim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy infiltrates another dream; Thor and Steve make it to Asgard; and Darcy makes a few new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this chapter took so long to be posted. I actually had the bulk of it done a long time ago but on April 1 I was admitted to the hospital thinking I had a kidney stone only to find out I had cancer. I had major surgery on April 13 to remove the tumor (which had not spread, thank god) along with everything it touched. I ended up losing a kidney, part of my pancreas, lymph nodes and adrenal gland along with about 20 lbs of tissue. I've been recovering and dealing with the emotional fallout, and -thankfully - do not need chemo or radiation. Thank you for your understanding!

Hurtling through space, Darcy distantly wonders if this is what being in the middle of a tornado feels like, strangely calm while you fly with chaos swirling violently around you. Of course, she's not in a house, doesn't have a dog named Toto, and doesn't see images of people she knows (wicked witch or no) to her eternal disappointment. Then she wonders if this is how Jane felt when she was transported via the Bifrost - disconnected and so fucking terrified her brain is numb. _God, I hope not._

With the thought of Jane comes a subtle pull, a minute change that cannot and is not overlooked. Her heart stutters. "Not again." _Please, please . . . I don't want to be in people's dreams anymore, just want to go home . . ._

But it does happen again. In a blink. In a breath. And then she is there, every bit of her non-body feeling disoriented and depressed: bright fluorescent lights overhead, shiny newly waxed tile underfoot, colorful displays and an arrangement of aisles demarcated by numerals and short lists. 

"A grocery store?" She cannot deny her incredulity. It's unlike any grocery store she's ever been to. There are the usual brightly colored vegetable and fruit bins but the aisles are strangely crisscrossed, featuring boxes of cereal and pop tarts with scrambled lettering and sitting beside white hot galaxies, telescopes, and floating mathematical equations that defy logic as well as Darcy's immediate knowledge. 

She looks at her feet and notices that she's not stuck in mud or anything else as she was in Steve's dream, and, "Fucking nude again." But, seriously, she's at that point where she would totally be okay with everyone on Team Avenger seeing her like this if it means being able to see and speak to them. (Although, a warning would be nice, like a Jarvis voice coming out of nowhere to tell her, "Miss Lewis, you are being transported to so-and-so's dream, please prepare to be exposed.") 

Taking tentative steps, she feels the solidity of the floor and inwardly congratulates the dreamer on a top notch dream construction. (She's still trying to puzzle out why the two times she was in Steve's dream there was water and mud and no light. It's one of the growing list of things she needs to do when she gets back to her body: Buy a dream dictionary). Also well-constructed are the grocery displays with towers of blue and purple apples that don't fall when poked and cereal box configurations that are designed to look like fictional rockets and spaceships (there's even a Millennium Falcon sculpted with bags of rice, jars of mayo, and boxed curry). She doesn't go near the strange and out-of-place things like the freezer full of ricocheting comets and aisle infinity which boasts "supernovas" and "black holes". The place is quiet but as she moves, Darcy hears the sounds of misery - high pitched moans, subdued sniffles and hiccupping sobs. 

She follows the sound and finds Jane sitting at the base of a huge wooden-spool-turned-display-table presenting different brands of tomato sauce, pasta and ketchup. She looks up, teary and blotchy and swollen and so-so-so heartbroken, Darcy just wants to absorb her. "Hey." She swallows against the lump in her throat because it feels like it's been forever and there's so much she needs to say in case this is the last time. "Janie, it's okay." Her arms come up to embrace the smaller woman when Jane throws herself at Darcy, crying her name over and over and over. 

It is then, as she holds Jane in her arms, as they rock back and forth together in a knot of limbs, that Darcy notices something even stranger than the out-of-place grocery items and her nudity. She blinks, "Janie, why are your pants around your ankles?" Darcy can only assume she had been so excited to see her friend that her mind just completely disregarded the fact Jane was sitting there, ass to the floor. (Dreams were weird. _Other_ people's dreams were _fucking_ weird.)

Jane does this crazy cough/sneeze combo thing, unloading a bunch of snot onto Darcy's shoulder and into her hair (it's totally gross but Darcy will take it), "Why are you naked?"

A valid point. Darcy doesn't let go, just rubs Jane's back as the astrophysicist continues to shudder. "I asked first." 

Jane babbles for a moment with _It's so good to see you, I miss you so much, I can't believe your boobs are that huge, what the hell size is your bra_ before getting to the nitty gritty. "I'm bleeding . . . down there." 

Darcy closes her eyes and sighs out, pets Jane's hair. _OOokkkkkaaaayyyy._ "Janie. Honey. When a girl matures, she bleeds once a month. This is called a period and --” Suddenly, it feels like someone has poured sawdust in her mouth. She exercises her jaw a few times, feels the dryness there, the breath expelling from her throat but failing to make sound. Her eyes open and drive down to study between Jane's knees, where Jane's underwear is twisted but drenched in blood so red it's nearly black. And just like that, she _knows_. "You're pregnant."

Jane buries her head in Darcy's shoulder, bites down on her clavicle as the shudders increase in strength and the tears come faster. "Not anymore. The blood . . . I must be miscarrying." 

"This is a dream, Jane." Even as she holds Jane protectively, Darcy's voice cracks like a whip - strong, forceful, and beyond questioning. "The baby is fine. He's not going anywhere except - eventually - in your arms." She has never been so sure of something in her entire life or afterlife. 

Pushing Jane away, just far enough to cup the new mother's face in her hands, Darcy locks her eyes on Jane's wet ones and tells her. "You need to wake up. Right now." 

Jane tries to shake her head. "No. I just got to see you and --" 

"Don't argue with me Janie. You need to wake up. And then I want you to go to the bathroom and see for yourself that you're not bleeding. And then you're going to go back to sleep and take a day off. No working, no visiting my body. Just rest, eat and bond with my nephew for a day." It feels slightly wrong when she calls the baby "nephew" like calling a gown "a dress", close but not quite _completely_ correct. She shakes her head, clearing it; and then, because it has been eating at her insides, and she needs someone to know. "Look, I don't know if I'll make it back . . . I'm scared my body will give out before I can figure any of this out, and I'll just be . . . out here, a fucking-bonafide-lost-soul; so, you have to promise me you'll tell the kid about me one day - crazy Aunt Darcy who once tazed the shit out of daddy and tried her best, traipsing through the nine realms to meet him." 

Scrubbing her face with her own hands, Jane sniffles. "You'll tell him yourself, because you are coming back. Thor and Steve are looking for you as we speak, and when they find you, we'll figure this out." 

Darcy is not amused. "Why the hell is Thor not taking care of you?" _Someone has to_. Jane is a brilliant scientist, but when it comes to self-care, she's hopeless. 

"Because we need you here with us. I wanted to come along but --" 

"Well, thank goodness he put his foot down about that one." Darcy feels that now-familiar pull where her navel should be, but isn't. She knows Jane is either about to wake up or she's about to be pulled out of the dream. "Listen, I'm about to go. Someone really doesn't like me. They sent wolves. Big, bad Asgardian wolves, roughly the size of a very healthy full-grown horse." 

"Wolves? What kind of --"

" _Listen_." The feeling is getting stronger. She grabs onto Jane's thin shoulders. "They were _Odin's_ wolves. I don't know how I know, but I do. If you can, tell Thor, Heimdall . . . fuck, _the mayor of New York_ , anybody. I stabbed one in the eye, but I don't think that'll keep 'em away for long. And . . . find Hogun first. I don't know if he was hurt badly in the attack. He sent me away before I could see what happened. I was on my way to Vanaheim through the portal when you hijacked my ride." 

But Jane has that pinched look on her face when she is puzzling out a problem instead of exhibiting the appropriate amount of regret for harshing Darcy's portal-ling. "Why would Odin attack you?" Darcy can practically see the cogs turning a mile a minute behind Jane's eyes. 

"I don't know that it was Odin who sent them. I don't know anything." It's all she can get out before the lights go out once again. 

.....

She knows she's outside, the smell of dirt, dried animal droppings, grass and flowers commingling, the sound of leaves rustling around her and the gentle snap of branches being trampled by wildlife are little explosions of reality in her ears, and - as she licks her lips against the dryness there, the taste of the air is clean and young and ages old at the same time. Behind closed eyelids, she can see the dappling of sunlight through the canopy and feel the warmth of it through the humidity - a bit heavier than she's used to. It's collecting upon her brow, the palms of her hands, her armpits. She feels soft and small and languid, tired but aware of it, aware of its wrongness, her own width and depth . . . slightly light headed. 

She wants to go back to sleep, wants . . . "I want my ipod." Her voice is low, nearly a whisper, the sound scratchy as sand paper but still her own. "This freaking entire episode deserves a soundtrack." 

An agreeing hum - low and gravely - alerts her to the fact she is not alone. _Don't panic. They could be friendly._ This. Registering just as a hand skims beneath her tangled cloak, across her stomach, fumbling at her hip. _Fuck._ She doesn't have the strength or energy to deal with this, can barely move her arms or legs an inch let alone sit up and fight. With a rabid kind of disassociation, her mind goes into survival mode, looking at the situation from a place of pure fact-based logic and presenting a possible - but - costly attempt to, if not escape, strongly discourage the hands from going further. 

Gathering all of her courage, every bit of determination and strength still in her and the memory of Natasha's mandatory self-defense training, Darcy forces her torso up off the ground to (hopefully) head-butt the person attempting to molest her. And her head does contact something, hard and unforgiving but it's not a skull rather a shoulder layered in muscle, skin, and broadcloth. Feeling like a limp noodle, her body rebounds but doesn't hit the ground, the hand at her hip shifts to catch her head, another hand supports her neck as the stranger settles her back, gently, on the ground. 

"Careful, dear. No harm will come to you. I only mean to fix what hath been broken and perhaps offer refreshment." The man's voice is low and rumbly and rasping reminding her of turning soil, the crunch of gravel, and tremors after an earthquake. It's not an unpleasant voice but a strange one; and when she opens her eyes, she finds that his features are pleasant as well. His skin is tan beneath sun burn, his hair and beard (full and long but nicely groomed) as dark as volcanic soil, and eyes as blue and clear as the sky. He reminds her of a very large Burmese mountain dog but clothed in a hundred shades of green. 

She tries to clear the dryness of her throat but is unsuccessful, coughing and grating out, "What does pawing at my hips have to do with that?" 

"You have a water skin tied to your belt." _Oooohh yeah._ She had forgotten about that. Hogun had insisted she keep the water from Urd's Well with her at all times before they had set out that morning (is it the same day? How long have I been out? _I can't keep doing this._ ) The last thought lingers like a bad taste. She closes her eyes against it but knows it to be true. _I'm so tired . . ._

The man above her is busy. She can feel the movement of his body, his knee braced against the side of her thigh as he crosses over her torso to retrieve the water skin. For a terrifying moment, she wonders if he means to rob her of it. While neither Baldr, Nanna, nor Hogun had made any sort of hint as to its value, she imagines water so holy it could create a corporeal form for wandering souls might catch a hefty price in the Nine Realms. 

She hears the clucking of a tongue before something cool and wet dribbles along the fingers of her right hand and into the palm - the hand the wolf had tasted. 

"You're in a bad way, little one. While I am no expert in wayward spirits, it takes but a novice to see the mark of the Cleaver." His tone is soft but there is a palpable anger there; and she is all the more grateful for how gentle his hands are as they shift and arrange her in a more comfortable position. "There is significant damage. Indeed, some of you has already been devoured." 

Darcy suddenly feels numb, blinks up at him and wonders, " _What?_ " Maybe that’s why she feels like this, all weak and strange, like Swiss cheese must feel – a pale vortex of various tunnels.

He sets down a wooden bowl within her line of sight and pours something that looks like oatmeal into it. "I would not venture again into the Dreaming were I you. I doubt you will survive another journey." He chases the grain with water, though she can't be sure if it's Urd's water. Her fingers flex and contract, thumb feathering over her damaged fingers only to find them newly intact (she’s somewhat disturbed by the idea that before the wounds were healed, the lacerations revealed a terrifying _nothing_ rather than adipose and blood. 

The man continues above. "Baldr's trinket seems to have done its work as you made it here, scathed but still quite hale." He grins down at her from beneath his thick facial hair, and Darcy finds herself smiling back wanly. His face - dark as it is - is like sunshine. "You should be proud. Not many would show such fortitude." 

She doesn’t feel proud, and she doesn’t want to vocalize how she has always thought she was more kickass than this, that – if the situation called for it – she would be a self-rescuing princess the likes action movies never show but she’s actually never felt more like a ghost than she does now – hollow and airy and disconnected from life; how she is so afraid that she will only be able to see the people she cares about in dreams . . . which now seem to be sapping whatever is left of her, because she can’t seem to get a grip on the situation and has no clue to make it better; how she cannot think of her family without wanting to cry and regrets the last thing she ever said to her brother was “Don’t get anyone pregnant.” Darcy’s breath hitches and she wonders how necessary breathing actually is, then wants to hide for thinking it. 

The Green man tuts softly and smooths the hair back from her forehead. “There is no shame in inviting or accepting help when it is offered in times of hardship, dear one.” He shifts, his hand sliding under her shoulder and, carefully, lifting, supporting her neck and upper back with one thick arm. The other hand comes around, carrying the bowl which he settles between them, taking up a spoon to prod at her lips. “Eat, dear. You need it more than you can know.” 

She wants to tell him it’s useless; but a ravenous sort of hunger gurgles through her midsection and she opens her mouth to accept the sustenance. Maybe ghosts need nutrition too? She doesn’t know. 

_I don’t know anything._

Darcy swallows the hysteria rising up like bile along with the granular goo the Green man is – literally – spoon feeding her like she’s an infant. It tastes like water and goes down smooth, warm, falling into her belly and resting there generating a comforting heat. 

Between bites, she asks where she is, unsure of where the portal trip was interrupted. 

He hums softly. “Currently, we sit upon Vanaheim, the Forest of Silence. I had been awaiting you for hours, through moon fall and sun rise. The Lady Sif bid me for aid on behalf of your uncle.” (What is with people making honorary connections with her? Odin is her uncle now? Or maybe it was Thor and something was lost in translation . . . . Thor does always call her “sister”. It’s so confusing!) He catches her eyes with his, the iris dark like twilight or a stormy sea. “We shall move on soon.” 

Her tongue feels heavy with questions. “I can’t believe it was so long . . . It was still light out when I reached the portal.” She blinks furiously. “Why does time seem so wonky here?” 

The Green man does not seem concerned at all, shrugging and shoving another spoonful into her mouth. “I imagine it is because you exist in two different places in two different states of being.” 

_Different states of being . . . What. An. Understatement._

Darcy doesn't like to think about it, doesn't want the thousand questions to flow across her field of thought; but she's hardly ever successful at putting them completely away. "You seem to know a lot about my current state of being." 

Her companion? Founder? _Who the hell is this guy?_ He knows Sif and has been - on the whole - benevolent; but he is still a stranger and may be working with the enemy. _Why would Odin attack you?_ Jane had asked. The answer - uncertain as it was in the dream - comes from a place deep within and growing stronger, coming forward. _It wasn't Odin._

He tuts as he feeds her a little more, the bowl coming empty as she feels strength returning but not quite as intense, not as robust as she had felt under Baldr's roof. "I am Frey, formerly of Vanaheim, oft-times of Asgard, now of Alfheim. I am as old if not older than the All Father and given to the sight as much as any of my kin. This is not the first I have met you, nor is it the only manner of meeting I have seen." 

Hopeful, "Can you tell me if I get back home?"

"There are many possible outcomes to your journey, little one. Every decision you make bears upon it, changes it, molds it, leads you further or nearer to where you wish to be and where Fate would have you." He sighs, puts down the bowl, the spoon, then makes a series of swipes along her forehead. It feels like a kiss. She feels a little heavier, a little more connected to the ground. "I may not reveal where you shall end, child; however, I may offer some advisement: The faster and farther one runs from their fate, the swifter and closer Fate shall pursue." 

She closes her eyes and swallows it down, feeling as if his words are a million glass shards cutting the message into her brain because, "I don't know what I did to deserve this." 

He urges her to sitting, his arm is like a warm steel beam across her back, strong and supportive. "What makes you believe that fate is something to be deserved and why do you believe the cur who has cleaved you did so due to your own past action?" 

Her eyes snap open as the words penetrate through the fog of her undulating emotions. Frey is looking at her with an encouraging half smile, his eyes bright in his interesting face. He's trying to tell her something without actually telling her. The first part of his question . . . he basically told her that fate doesn't give two shits what you deserve, it's your fate; and the second . . . he didn't dispute _she_ was the target so, maybe this is confirmation that it was always meant to be her disconnected from her body and touristing around the Nine Realms. _Great._ He also specifically questioned that it was _past action_ that spurred her nemesis on . . . so if it wasn't something she had already done, could it be something she is going to do _in the future?_

The leap of logic feels right, like silent applause sitting behind her eyes. _So the asshole knows the future . . . or a small part of it_. Whether her attacker sees the future for himself (she somehow knows the perp is male, the air vibrates with the knowledge, the whisper she had felt in her ear before her soul was rendered had sounded like a man) or had access to someone gifted with prophecy, she didn't know. Her eyes meet Frey's with an intensity she has been lacking since this entire nightmare began. 

"Are there any of you with the sight who actually tell the future?" 

He breathes loudly, his lips moving with no sound before he pushes her up to her feet, without seeming effort. "There are some, yes, called oracles; however, it is generally discouraged and their predictions are not always accurate." 

She's holding to his hand, her grip slighter than what it would have been in different circumstances. Darcy is suddenly taken with a sense of urgency. "I need to see one. Is there someone on Asgard? Maybe here in Vanaheim?" She thinks to stay as local as possible. Whoever is after her has botched his first attempt on her life. He obviously wants to finish the job if the wolves are any indication. 

As they begin to walk, Frey sighs again, heavily, as if the weight of the world is perched atop his shoulders and its name is Darcy. "I know of a lady that resides nearby; however, you should guard against blind trust in her word."

"I know. All of my decisions --" 

"As well as the decisions of those around you." 

"All of that. It changes things." Somehow, that part doesn't scare her. There is a part of her - the part that stood up to the wolf before the portal - that understands where this is headed, that sees everything Darcy hasn't allowed herself to fully comprehend, that isn't clouded by denial. Someone . . . someone-who-is-not-Odin but has access to Odin's treasure vault and wolves is running from fate - a fate that will involve Darcy somehow in some pivotal way. A fate so unwanted this someone has decided to not only kill Darcy but obliterate her very soul from existence. 

_The faster and farther one runs from their fate, the swifter and closer Fate shall pursue._ She aims her gaze to the ground, watching her booted feet take their slow, painful track across the lush green of this world, hiding her fear from Frey. If someone running from his own fate - entwined as it seemingly is with Darcy - has reaped this much chaos, Darcy wonders what will happen when they finally meet upon the stage of destiny. 

Because, she realizes, her attacker has only made their reunion inevitable. He's already done what he can to kill her, is actively keeping her from reuniting with her body. It's only logical to think he will not leave her be if her fate is to somehow harm or complicate things for him. And she's stubborn. She can admit that about herself. She won't let him take her down without a fight; and that's how she knows - the knowledge settling over her like a blanket of frost as she bites her lip against the dilation of her throat. 

This will only end when one of them dies. 

.....

Bruce sits upon The Chair for a period of two minutes before standing and pacing the small length of Darcy's room. He sits again. Stands. Paces the width. Leans upon a bed rail. Takes off his glasses. Wipes them. Sets them down on the roll-out tray. Massages his temples. Sits down again. This has been his modus operandi for hours.

Each action is quick, silent, and jerky. There is a fine sheen of sweat glowing on his skin; and his hands are shaking. 

The Other Guy _hates_ it here. 

But they both love Darcy like a beloved cousin or a younger sister or even a surrogate daughter (sometimes a _pet_ ). Either way, she's become indispensable. Precious. _Family_. So he's here, barely tolerating the space and wanting to punch someone's lights out. 

His hands come up to rub at his cheeks. He sighs and rocks, rubs at the knit material at his knees, lips pursed and throat closed about a scream. 

Honestly, Bruce hates it here too. Hates the quiet, hates the beep of the heart monitor, hates the whir of the oxygen circulating into Darcy's nose, hates that she is still lying there, and hates this clueless helplessness. But he's here today. Was here yesterday and the day before and the day before that, sleepless and restless and _angry_. Because he is a fucking doctor, damn it. He's mutated himself into something obscene and indestructible. He's watched aliens sail through the sky and destroy a city. He's seen people who can do terrible, wonderful things without explanation. He knows a goddamn _god_ personally . . . kicked another god's smarmy ass. But he can't figure this shit out to save Darcy. And it _grates_.

She is such a dear, _good_ and imperfect person with an uncanny ability to see exactly what another needs and provide it without fuss or explanation. It is probably that assertive, bare-faced brand of kindness that had won the full, tattered trust of all the Avengers. She is the singular person on the extended team without an ulterior motive or agenda. Even Jane could not say that.

And Darcy had won even him over in a startling short amount of time (despite all of his best efforts). He had been indifferent to her when she and Dr. Foster first moved in, keeping his distance after their initial (mandatory per Tony) introduction as was his habit around pretty much everyone, including - to an extent - his (reluctantly accepted) teammates. However, nary a month had gone by when he had returned to the lab after pulling an all-nighter and having a small nap to find Darcy at his desk, her music blaring through his lab, while she collated and transcribed nearly four months' worth of notes. He had taken a step, opened his mouth to berate her, when he saw the boxes of equipment he still had not unpacked and put together was gone - the instruments all cleaned, assembled and lined up on a cleared table and ready to be put to use. He also noticed various beakers and cylinders he had left to wash when he returned were already cleaned and racked to dry. 

It had been an ironically welcome sore point with him that there were no assistants on the SI payroll willing to risk working with the Other Guy; and here was this slip of a young woman, smiling and sassy without being arrogant or suffocatingly self-deprecating, who saw the work piling up and took it upon herself to do something about it without obligation. 

As he had stumbled over his explanations, excuses, and thanks, Darcy had merely finished what she was doing - her fingers flying over the keyboard to stop, stood and offered, "Anytime you need a hand, dude. I can percolate, centrifuge, and even solder." 

Over the next months, working side-by-side every other day, he learned that she had stolen a lipstick from K-mart when she was a tween, the same shade as her mother's; that she used to take dance lessons and signed up for Jane's internship on a dare; that - despite peer pressure from friends and enemies alike - she had never dyed her hair, done drugs or gotten drunk in high school though she did party hard her first year in college, nearly flunked out and swore never again (now, she limited herself to a few glasses of wine with dinner or a casual beer); that she became giddy over puppy photos; that she always short-changed herself, preferring to remain in a support role rather than taking the lead on projects she was more than qualified to head; that she could curse more fluently that Steve, Barton, and Tony combined but was too in awe of Pepper to compete; that she had gotten tired of men ogling her breasts somewhere in the vicinity of ninth grade and learned how to knit shortly after for no other reason than she liked the idea of making her own clothes; that she had learned to manufacture fake IDs as a lucrative business to afford her first car; and that her worst fear wasn't dying but being forgotten. 

Swallowing hard, tamping down the beast, Bruce lingers over her hand, traces the webbing between her fingers and tells her, "I won't forget. I _know_ you'll be back with us soon." Thor had sworn it so, and Bruce was only too familiar with Steve's determined face. Neither were particularly adept at breaking promises. He hopes to be the same. 

He stares down at her face, tries to commit it to memory before walking away. 

He'll be back tomorrow, he knows. They will all be back tomorrow (even Maria Hill and Fury, and excluding the Captain and Thor) to say one more word, have one more touch, breathe one more good-bye before seeing her off to some nameless long-term medical facility near her parents' home per her family's wishes, the papers all filled out and signed (only after Tony and Pepper researched any and all possible legalities that could keep her here where it is safe, where they can protect her). And he tries to understand . . . tries to put himself in the Lewises impossible shoes. 

It doesn't make the coming separation burn any less behind his greening eyes. 

.....

When Thor and Steve reach Asgard, they explain the situation to (and beg discretion) from Heimdall who has difficulty keeping track of Darcy's steps as spirits are simply not part of his domain but tells Thor – with a language of hands and eyes – that Hogun is wounded but not seriously and Darcy has, indeed, reached Vanaheim. They are also told where to find Hogun as he has moved on since Freki and Geri’s pack attacked. They agree on a likely excuse to give Odin should he ask after the Bifrost usage. In sum, the exchange lasts a bare five minutes before Thor is leading Steve to the royal stables. 

For a variety of reasons – not the least of which is the aforementioned need for discretion – Thor chooses Hofvarpnir for Steve and takes Blodughofi for himself. Both are dependable steeds but not known for particular talents. 

They make good time, slipping to the edge of the city wall and making their way into the country. It is nightfall, the illumination of the cosmos above reminding Thor of the connecting sky between here and Midgard where his Jane remains with their child tucked in her womb. 

He tries not to feel joy at the prospect of fatherhood when his friend is in such dire straits and his own father cannot be absolved of – at least some – guilt in it. It has actually been some time – a mere blink to his Asgardian sensibilities but a small eternity by Migard standards – that he has felt so full of rage. It is a challenge to sift through the red haze where Darcy dwells in his mind and memory so that he may be clear headed in planning and just in his judgements, to remain worthy of Mjolnir and Darcy both. 

Pulling up the hood of his cloak, Thor covers his nose, mouth and chin with a dark neck cloth. Steven does the same and absently adjusts the Asgardian bronze shield at his back. Should Huginn and Muninn be at wing tonight, they do not wish to be recognized. Thus far, the adversary so focused on ending Darcy’s life and soul has been steps ahead. Their first goal is to remedy this handicap – find Hogun, find Darcy and learn of their foe’s identity. 

It will take most of the night to reach Hogun’s last known location. It will take even longer – possibly days or weeks – to catch up to Darcy. His friends have sworn a blood oath to protect her, to keep her safe; and safety now means moving as swiftly and secretly as possible, all the way to Helheim if need be. (He sincerely and fully hopes not. Hel, once in possession of a new soul, will never part with it. That the Queen of the Dead has not claimed Darcy nor made moves to do so presently, is a small though critical boon.) 

There is a slight breeze, a bit of mist and chill. He tastes the air and sighs quietly, listening to the whir of locusts and music of croaking frogs and shrilling crickets. 

He should have known the moment he met Darcy, known she is of his blood, felt the ties of fate that had brought him to her – pulling him down to the van she had been driving in the desert, using his own element against him. Too blinded by his attraction to Jane, too full of his own hubris to pay attention to how she so effortlessly, _intuitively_ , recognized his origins and accepted him with little more than blind faith and a smile. 

It was not until London, upon his return to Midgard after the resurrected Dark Elves were annihilated, that he truly began to build a relationship and appreciation with his achingly fragile adopted sister; and as they grew close as siblings, he began to notice the vibration of her; the familiar scaled-down nose; the way she held her head when she spoke; the shape of her mouth and frame of her lips; and how her blue-eyes sometimes snapped with the colors of the aurora. 

She reminded him so much of his younger brother that a bit of a look into her family tree – the earthly internet was, indeed, a powerfully useful tool – proved what he had already surmised. Baldr had seen the similarities too, had remarked upon them in their last communication, and made a point to warn, “I am certain she is coming into a certain power – as a truth-teller.” This would explain her easy acceptance of his origins, the Nine Realms, and all that had come before and after. Darcy was – all over – his niece, diluted as her Aesir blood was with time and human interaction, guaranteed a certain level of respect and protection. 

As her friend, brother, uncle and self-appointed guardian, Thor is determined to see this through to the end, to find a way to right this wrong, to restore Darcy to her natural state of living on Midgard and (finally) introduce her as his family to both worlds - no matter what complications arise. 

As the night darkens, he can see the rivers connecting the Nine Realms, almost hear the rushing of them – the sound of time passing. “We must hurry.” 

Steven grunts, unused to riding a horse, let alone an Asgardian one (which - like the people - are hardier, faster, stronger and capable of inspiring very large saddle sores). Thor had told him before leaving, Darcy’s condition was not unheard of in Asgardian stories. Not one of the Vanir or Aesir or even giants Thor was on good terms with knew what needed to be done to reconnect her soul and body, particularly with the conundrum of the two existing on completely separate worlds. However, they had all agreed on one thing: The longer Darcy’s soul remained cleaved, the weaker her body would become till eventually the life thread would wear and sever, leaving her – fully – a ghost, another slave for Hel. “Lead the way. I can handle the speed.” 

Thor nods, gives instruction, and then they are both off, at hurricane gale speeds, riding through space and over hills, fields of long grass, and mist, eating up the distance. They will make good time this way. 

_We will find you, Darcy_ , Thor silently vows for the thousandth time (not the last), _and when we do, we shall bring you home where you belong; and there, I shall hold you as tightly as my own child and never let go._

….. 

Way back when Derek was first born, she had been obsessed with the movie _Labyrinth_ , so she dragged the baby's bouncer - baby and all, with her little six year old twig arms - out of the house, and buried her brother in the middle of a bush in the backyard to more effectively pretend he had been taken by the goblin king, Jareth. They were out there for maybe a half hour with Darcy acting out all of Sarah's trial and tribulations, reciting the dialogue word for word in different voices before she had gotten tired and hungry and went inside for a snack. 

Her mother hadn't noticed baby Derek’s absence for another hour. He had been eaten up by mosquitoes and sported heat rashes beneath his legs but otherwise came out unscathed. Meanwhile Darcy had not been so lucky, receiving a stout spanking and grounding (for a whole month) . . . also no more unsupervised playtime with the baby. 

The episode hadn't squelched Darcy's zeal for adventure. She had always been a great fan of the hero's journey; joining Frodo and Luke and Harry and the Pevensies, and (insert hero on a journey here) on their respective quests in her head and heart, always keeping the naive wish that maybe someday - in a land or galaxy far, far away - she might have a similar experience. 

Now that she is actually in the midst of one, she really, really wonders what the hell she had been thinking. Walking all day sucks. Riding a horse bareback sucks. Sleeping on the ground sucks. Feeling like someone is watching you sucks. _Knowing_ someone wants you **dead** really, _really_ sucks. Expecting an attack at any moment sucks. Not knowing what the fuck you're supposed to do to fix it all sucks monster cock. Being away from your loved ones? Sucks. Doing all of this while you are essentially dead? _FUCKING_ sucks. **Hard**.

There's exactly zero sense of awe and adventure and 100,000% frustration, anxiety, and fear. 

This is where Darcy's mind is as she sits on an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room located in an unfamiliar house completely plated in gold and bronze. Frey told her upon their approach that it was his sister, Freya's, summer house and that it was currently empty. For an "empty" house, there were about fifty servants scurrying about, one of which showed her to this room despite her protests that she would be happier in the servants' quarters. 

Being alone fills her with every nightmare she's ever had or newly witnessed. So she sits, thinking about where she is, where she's been and where she's going to go from here, her fake body getting smaller and smaller as her "muscles" become tenser and tenser because the candle and fire light just isn't enough to assuage her anxiety. 

She doesn't even know what time it is though night had fallen - at least - a few hours ago and the house is supernaturally quiet around her. Frey had mentioned briefly that Freya might be in residence, but told her that getting an audience or introduction would be a waste of time. They are only there to take a rest and replenish supplies. 

Darcy wishes they had just kept going. 

There is a stark sense of urgency that erupted sometime back when she and Letfetti were racing the wolf to the portal that has since billowed out to the corners and reaches of her questionable existence. It tells her to keep moving, to **run** \- not walk - to . . . . wherever it is the Elivagar are located. But she could see the wear on Frey (not that she wasn't tired as hell too), didn't want to be bratty or a burden or otherwise spoil his opinion of her. 

She needs all the friends she can get right now; and Frey had turned out to be a good sort of friend to have. After nursing her, he had remained a steadfast, solid companion - telling her stories, singing songs, and coaxing conversation out of her when she felt like shutting down. He was easy to talk to - not as blindingly boisterous as Baldr but just as kind, low key . . . providing a stabilizing _calm_. Nothing seemed to rattle him. When she was jumping at little noises - the crack of a twig, rustling bushes, a slight whistling wind, he had a ready hand to ground her shoulder, pat her head, or grasp her shaking fingers. Even spotting one of Odin's ravens, Frey had merely watched the bird with an impassive look in his eyes before ushering her further at the same steady pace, assuring her that she was safe with him. 

Now, alone in this room and surrounded by silence but filled with the deafening noise of her uncertain living status, she feels that insistent push inside her midsection telling her to _get up and go get up and go get up and go_. She wonders, desperately, _Go where?_ She doesn't _know_ the way to the Elivagar, doesn't have a map. And there's too much uncertainty, too much _fear_ for her to confidently decide to strike out on her own even with the growing feeling that it's what she needs to do. 

Fact is, Darcy knows with the same sort of conviction that tells her Odin is not behind her _current state of being_ that time - wonky as it is - is running out. She can sometimes almost feel the proverbial sand slipping through her fingers. 

And it's weird and terrifying in the most non-verbal, inarticulate way that she's looking in the face of her own mortality with every step and every glance of her 'skin'. It never leaves her - this knowledge that she's not alive, not dead but somewhere in-between with no way of knowing when or how or why the scales will tip in favor of _life_. Her throat works against the familiar lump forming there as she watches the jumping shadows across the ceiling and wishes things were easier, that she had accomplished more, that -- No. She shakes her head, closes her eyes against the onslaught of fear, anguish, and regret. She isn't going to do this to herself. 

A soft knock punctuates the still air before the door is opened slightly and an unfamiliar figure, red-haired and gorgeous in a sheath of gold, squeezes through. 

Darcy immediately jumps to her feet, knowing this woman is not a servant. She can feel a surge of power . . . a palpable buzz . . . like a live wire, as if the air had suddenly become thick, almost material. "I -- " 

"Oh, please do not strain yourself dear. Through the tales of Thor and my brother, we are as kin. There is no need for ceremony." The woman, Darcy can tell - even in the dim candlelight, is tan and statuesque with glowing golden eyes above bare shimmering shoulders. "I am called Freya. Please accept my humblest apologies for intruding upon your rest, dearest; however, my brother mentioned your preference for company and I did near beat him for his insensitivity in sending you to this lonely room." 

Darcy tries to hide a wince. "It's really not --" 

"Nonsense." Freya thrusts a hand between them before casually seating herself on the bed, legs crossing as her skirt billows and flows like liquid gold around her feet. "You have been through much. Your disquietude is to be expected . . . by anyone save my clod of a twin." She sighs heavily even as her fingers give an agitated dance upon the bedclothes. "I have come to make recompense." 

Opening her mouth to respond, Darcy pauses, waiting to see if Freya will cut her off again. "You really don't have to. I'm a grown woman. I can deal with being by myself for a night." She tries to modulate her tone, tries not to sound defensive or leak out her fears and show Freya how right she is, doesn't want to hint at the terror lurking behind her eyes or betray just how soul weary she (literally) is. 

Freya merely smiles, gently . . . almost motherly (which does not jive at all with Darcy's first impression of her) before shoving two fingers in her mouth and producing an ear piercing whistle. If Darcy had had actual eardrums, Darcy is certain they would have been bleeding. 

And just about when she had decided to educate the goddess of love about proper inside-voice etiquette, a soft grunt distracts her then the gentle whine of the heavy wooden door sounds as it swings just a little wider. A velvety, wet snout - large, near the size of her head - bracketed by dangerously thick, razor sharp tusks appears, followed by a pair of liquid black eyes topped by gleaming golden bristles that continued to cover an impressive bulk that reaches Darcy's shoulder in height but dwarfs her in overall size. 

The lump is back in Darcy's throat, bigger and badder than before for an unknown and irresistable reason, as her nose prickles and eyes burn, tears beginning down her face. She can. Not. Breathe . . . 

Because she knows Thor, an honest to God . . . god (or, something close to one by Midgard -- **human** standards). Not to mention, she has witnessed (through television) an alien invasion stopped by five _(FIVE)_ people with extraordinary abilities; has fought dark elves and lived to tell about it; is currently in a shell body produced by a _mystical well_ ; and ridden a gigantic horse that can run fast enough to break the sound barrier across a supposedly _mythical world_ , yet she never fully believed that a magical wild boar covered in golden bristles could exist. No matter how many times Thor had insisted . . . 

But it -- he _did_!

Tremors race up and down her spine until her extremities tingle as she regards the golden boar filling the room with a dreamy sort of melancholy. 

Darcy is only dimly aware of Freya's smug look as she swallows audibly and opens her arms to be sniffed and nibbled on, breathlessly acknowledging and . . . reverent, " _Gullinbursti_."

"I did find the beast sniffing about your room and so offer his most esteemed presence to alleviate your current distress." Freya's voice is not unkind but reflects a deep warmth, a solid welcome. 

Darcy is hugging Gullinbursti's huge head with desperately clinging hands as he snuffs at her side and midsection. Overcome, her mouth works as she buries her face against the soft bristles covering his neck rolls and cries silently . . .completely with her entire body, feeling just a little of the ever-present crushing weight lifting from her soul with every shudder, sob and tear the boar takes upon himself without judgement or censure. 

.....

Hogun is lounging quite safely and comfortably in the company of seven lovely women and nursing a well-deserved beer when Thor's fist crashes into his face. It takes him a moment to pull himself off the ground and hear beyond the ringing in his ears. It has been many long years since Thor has released full strength upon him, not since they were enemies in that long ago war. 

He's mildly impressed when he takes in the ladies bearing their weapons to the new comers, the other establishment patrons minding their own tables and guests and vittles. Waving his company away, he takes an easy stance, placing his hands behind his back - a sign of peace and welcoming, a statement of reminder: _I am your brother-in-arms and I forgive you this fit of pique._

Thor does not soften. "While I am glad to see you are well and unhurt, I trusted my honored sister into your care and protection. How does a _wolf_ get the better of a Vanir warrior?" 

_Easily_ , Hogun does not say. The damn beasts are powerful and heavy, and he was forced to fight off several alone, coming away from the carnage with countless scratches and one large bite to the side (which, no doubt, would subside into quite the impressive scar). He had been equally worried over the Lady Darcy of Midgard before receiving word from Frey that she had taken damage to a hand but survived to reach Vanaheim in reasonable condition. In all honesty, he knew this was not the only injury she would entertain before all was over and done. 

"Everything is as it should be." It is not an exaction of his true sentiment. He has always had great difficulty sharing anything of his visions because once shared, the outcome would likely change as the subjects involved would _try_ to change it and suffer great pains for the effort; however, he knows Thor well, well enough to see his friend is in great turmoil and suffering a cessation of hope. "Her true journey will soon begin in earnest." 

"What do you mean?" The voice is not a new one - the sound of it low and tight, commanding - though Hogun has not had the pleasure of spending much time with the owner. His eyes glance to the one Midgardians call "Captain", nods in respect and greeting. 

However, it is Thor whom answers, looking very much worn and angry and just a touch guilty. "My brother informed me some time ago that he believes Darcy to possess the gifts of a truth-teller. She has been fighting this side of her nature; however, there will come a time - perhaps sooner than any would wish - when she must accept this rite." 

The Captain breathes out a long breath before whispering a small prayer for patience. "Gifts of a truth-teller?" 

Hogun observes the exchange, noting the tight coil of the Captain's body and the reluctant shuffle of his Prince's. "If my sister does indeed hold these gifts, she will be endowed with the ability to see through lies and illusion, reveal truths when they be clouded in deceit and inspire others to forthrightness. It is a rare and precious gift." 

Thor lowers his eyes, tightens fists at his sides and visibly inhales. "It is a gift reserved for those destined to become of the Norns." 

.....

Darcy doesn't know how long she cries, doesn't mark the moon, the shadows, the time. She just sits on the floor, buried in golden bristles and let's every ounce of fear and worry and uncertainty and anxiety and sadness and (insert negative emotion here) matte Gullinbursti's massive shoulder as the boar lies quietly, a strong sentinel and stalwart friend, occasionally snuffing at her hair or licking her hand. 

She thinks she falls asleep for a short time, but she can't be sure. There is simply a moment when she becomes aware of her surroundings and her companion and the fact that - despite unloading the children of her own personal terror - she doesn't feel empty nor tired nor drained. No. She feels invigorated. She feels strong and ready to fight, determined and clear-headed. 

The unsettling drive to move and _do something_ is there still, overriding everything else; and she knows, without knowing how, _exactly_ what she needs to do. 

Shifting to her feet, Darcy decides to leave her tunic and trousers. She is dressed in one of those nightgowns she loved so much at Baldr's house and wants to _attempt_ getting one home (she promises herself to ask Freya's permission later). Slightly trembling (from excitement? anticipation? delayed caffeine withdrawal? She decides it doesn't really matter), she drags on her boots and tries to perform the weird blessing Nanna had performed days? weeks? _Years_ ago (again, not really caring at this point). She keeps the leather belt, strings her water skin to hang at one hip, and dons Hlin’s bracers at either wrist, staring for a moment at the space where one knife once lay as she wonders how many others she will be forced to use before this is over. Lastly, the heavy gray cloak is fastened around her shoulders with the ever-present opal broach before she pats Gullinbursti's head, face betraying nothing. "Do you wanna go on an adventure, big G?" 

The boar's soulful eyes bore into hers for long, kinetic moments before he rises to his hooves and urges her with snout and tusk to climb onto his back. Darcy grins down on him when she finds her seat, bends to kiss his neck folds. "We are gonna be the greatest of bffs, big guy." 

He nudges the door fully open and walks through the darkness confidently and without direction, and Darcy is about to tell him where she thinks they need to be when the hall opens into a great balcony beneath the gorgeous panorama of the Vanir sky, equal in breathtaking astronomical beauty to Asgard's. _I wish Janie could see this. I wish they could_ all _see this_. Absently, Darcy thanks the boar and slides from his back to scan the horizon before lifting her gaze and scanning across, up and across, up and across until she realizes she's been focused on the same patch of sky and squints. There's a fission of primal knowledge roiling in her chest like heartburn on steroids. 

She points, arm and pointer finger equally straight and fully extended, resolute and grim. "There, Big G. We need to get there." 

Gullinbursti's answering grunt ends on a high squeal as he nervously prances from side to side, his big head swaying in a semblance of 'no'. Darcy places her hands on either jowl and presses her forehead between the giant animal's eyes. "I have to go there, baby. I have to. I feel it everywhere, like if I don't I'll totally explode into a million watery sparkles and I'll _never_ get back home." She backs away slightly, her eyes finding liquid black staring back, focused. "I can't do this alone." 

Endless moments stretch into infinity. Darcy feels vaguely nauseous, her mouth pinched, hands impossibly sweaty. Gullinbursti finally grunts, butting his head against her chest before urging her onto his back once again. She's not sure, as she finds her seat again, how they're going to get to the red star so far away, wonders if there’s a portal somewhere, wonders if she should disturb Frey to borrow his "folding ship" as Thor had once spoken of. But then Frey would _know_ and then he would be obligated to _come with them_ and that wasn't the way this was supposed to happen. 

Darcy blinks, distracted by the realization that she's not sure how she knows that, as Gullinbursti walks at a sedate pace around the balcony which - apparently - wraps around the entire house, looking for the exit. Maybe she should find it and steal the ship before they leave? No, she's already "stealing" Frey's pet. (She's a horrible, horrible house guest, can imagine being banned from all Asgardian and Vanir households for the rest of her natural life no matter how much she apologizes and Thor lobbies for her forgiveness. And that would fucking suck swamp ass.) She just needs to return before everyone wakes up in the morning . . . if she can figure out how the days and nights work (damn it). 

"It's not as if you can fly, eh Big G?" They are in the courtyard, out the gate, into the forest and getting deeper. The horizon lightens and Darcy makes to doze when Gullinbursti squeals high and loud and bucks, forcing Darcy flat against his back, her hands grasping tightly along his flanks. 

And before she can even say "oof" or "what the hell" or anything for that matter, she is busy holding on for dear life (or, you know, basic existence). The wind is tearing at her hair and clothes and drying out her eyes, and she can't feel the close warmth of the grass or the brush or the trees nor smell anything that resembles nature; and when she looks to the side, it merely confirms her scattered thought, _Holy fuck. Gullinbursti can **fly**_. 

She smiles for the first time that night, throws back her head and laughs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:
> 
> Jane's dream is based on a dream I had during the early days of my own pregnancy.
> 
> Frey - a major Norse god associated with male virility, sunshine, and fair weather. He was originally a Vanir but was given to the Aesir along with his twin sister Freya as part of a war treaty. His domain is Alfheim.
> 
> Forest of Silence - my own invention. It will be making a repeat performance.
> 
> Freki and Geri - Odin's wolves.
> 
> Hofvarpnir and Blodughofi - horses recorded in the original mythology texts as horses of Asgard but not associated with any particular rider.
> 
> Hugnin and Munnin - Odin's ravens. They fly around the Nine Realms and report what they have seen to Odin.
> 
> Hel - goddess of the Underworld and Queen of the DISHONORED dead. She is also Loki's daughter and known to be more powerful than even Odin.
> 
> Freya - goddess of (sexual) love, she's Frey's twin and it is debatable if it was she or Frigga who first showed Aesir Seid (magic). She was originally a Vanir but was given to the Aesir along with her twin brother as part of a war treaty. 
> 
> All that truth-teller business is my own invention. The part about the Norns . . . based on the theory that the Norns: Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld are TITLES not names and possibly different people were the Norns over time.
> 
> Hogun's "long ago war" mention refers to the Vanir/Aesir war which ended with a treaty that saw Frey and Freya given over to the Aesir who eventually adopted them.
> 
> Frey's ship is actually called Skíðblaðnir and is said to fold down to a size easily fit into a pouch Frey carries with him.
> 
> Gullinbursti - A gold bristled boar, Frey's gift from the Dwarves. Gullinbursti has many special abilities: transport via land or air (and apparently space) and many others that we will explore next chapter ^_^
> 
> Coming Up: Chapter 7: The Fire Giants


	7. The Fire Giants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stories are shared. Darcy makes multiple discoveries. Steve and Thor make it to Freya's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have sat on this chapter for a few months. I was finished but felt something was . . . off. I finally cut out a few scenes and have been editing on and off. Now I am just tired of looking at it. This is one of the last "set up" chapters. Pretty much from here on our answers will come as the plot rears its ugly head.

Darcy’s mother, _Please call me Astrid_ , is a small but robust woman with dark hair cut into a close pixie and eyes that seem to glow like bioluminescent algae behind horn-rimmed glasses. She walks with a slight limp and tells everyone she has never been sick a day in her life, her mouth often turned down in an accustomed sort of melancholic frown; but she also exudes a palpable gentleness that becomes ever more apparent in the days she visits Darcy’s bedside.

Natasha watches as the older woman comes in at the same time every day, removes her ever-present cardigan, and always keeps one hand on whatever exposed part of Darcy she can reach – a cheek, a hand, the base of the daughter’s neck, tracing around bare eyes where missing glasses once lay. She talks to Darcy in a continuing one-sided conversation that spans a plethora of subjects – some personal, some poignant, some humorous. 

And sometimes, when the words die out and the quiet sets in, Natasha will watch as the despondent mother cries and wish she could do the same. 

All the while, Astrid’s hands are touching Darcy: fussing with her hair, pawing at her face, rubbing an arm, or holding a hand. And in the in-between times, she would trim her daughter’s nails, apply lip balm, and massage lotion into her skin and feet. 

Sometimes, it is too much to watch, too intimate. Natasha will leave out the room and stand by the door outside. Sometimes, Astrid is present enough to invite Natasha to help. 

And sometimes, Astrid will come in, sit down, and braid Darcy’s hair over and over and over again with her head bowed as if in prayer and her eyes reflecting a level of gravity and focus Natasha rarely ever sees in civilians. 

It is on the “braiding days” that Darcy’s mother seems most open to sharing stories of Darcy’s childhood, her history – as if she’s afraid the memories will fade with the body lying before them. 

Natasha often sits on the opposite side of the bed and begins parting the long, dark strands of Darcy’s hair to braid as well, and it is during those moments that Astrid seems most hopeful, more encouraged . . . happy to have the company and support.

With working hands and busy eyes, they talk about the mundane, about Darcy, about life in general and living in a world where aliens invade, gods exist, megalomaniacs are a dime a dozen, and even a band of superheroes cannot solve every problem.

It is during one of these braiding days that Astrid tells Natasha that it was a shock meeting Thor – her own mother was Norwegian and had come to the states after losing Astrid’s father to the sea. She had been a very small girl then, not yet even introduced to English, but she can still remember that he was impossibly tall, stronger than any man she’s ever known before or since, and had eyes that seemed to shift colors – pale blues, greens, pink, and dark violet. 

“And for all that he’s been dead before I even came here, long before I was married even, Darcy always told these insane stories of how she had taken multiple trips with her _bestefar_. These dreams . . . she was so adamant they were real, that he had given her an ocean filled with dragons and that sometimes they would walk the length and breadth of a forest as silent as my mother said he was. She also mentioned there was a cold place where a giant woman would feed her stew to keep her warm and cuddle her until she slept.”

Astrid shakes her head with a soft, rare smile fixed on her lips as she bends over the emerging braid. “She was always such an imaginative child. I was convinced she would become the author of children’s books.”

Natasha wants to ask if Astrid ever believed Darcy’s stories; but instead asks a much more long-standing curiosity, “Why braids?”

Because it wasn’t as simple as braids. What Astrid did was sculpt meticulous webs throughout Darcy’s hair, spreading it out like a well-made net about the young woman’s head or weaving it up into a coronet or wrapping the individual plaits into a sophisticated concoction that reminded Natasha of pictures and movies of Amazons and Vikings. 

Astrid doesn’t stop in her work, she bends a little deeper, stares a little hotter. “When I was a girl, after my father left and died, my mother told me that his people held to the old ways and believed that arranging another’s hair was the most humble and powerful of blessings. I’ve even read that in some cultures, the braiding of another’s hair endows that person with your power . . . or talents . . . your unique essence.”

Here, she frowns and blinks rapidly as if warding off tears and when she speaks again, her voice is thready, wavering, “When I braid her hair, it’s my way of sharing my strength . . . calling her back. And I pray. I pray to God, my father, anyone who will listen, that they will watch over her – wherever her soul has gone, and that her dreams will be beautiful, like when she was a child.”

Natasha’s fingers pause in their own work, her eyes finding Darcy’s closed ones; and wonders at the heavy feeling in her chest, of the moisture gathering in her own eyes, before she takes up Darcy’s hair again, braiding a little more mindfully, a little more neatly, tying each plait just a little more tightly.

****

Entering the new atmosphere of . . . wherever the hell her senses and Gullinbursti had brought her, was (to reiterate) . . _hell_. There was thick clouds of ash and dust that were abrasive and acidic and smelled of sulphur, fiery heat that scorched her “skin”, an insane amount of turbulence (her thighs and fingers ache from holding on to G so hard), and an environment she knows cannot be compatible with life.

_Good thing I’m dead right now_. She thinks as they land, worried after Gullinbursti whose undercoat is drenched with sweat but seems fine - if exhausted - otherwise. Slipping off the boar’s back, she feels along his flanks, taking in the rise and fall of his ribs, the labored ebb and flow of his breath. He snorts , nuzzling her shoulder, abrading her back with the flat of his tusk, as if assuring her of his well-being.

“I know, G.” She says, marveling at the falling ash and soot that seem to paint this world of soaring mountain and endless cliffs in a permanent night, lit only by the streams of lava spread over the craggy, unstable ground and backlit clouds of red and black. She can hear the distant hiss and blow of geysers, smell an orchestra of poisonous gas assailing the air and feel the teeming vibration of trapped pressure beneath her feet – more evidence that this planet is a volcanic powder keg about to explode. Red lightning crackles across the horizon in spidery flashes.

She feels distant from herself as she takes it in, anchored only by Gullinbursti’s touch, as she breathes the name, “ _Muspell_.” The birthplace of stars. The home of the fire giants.

A stab of fear breaks through her earlier confidence at the realization, but the earnest knowledge that she belongs here doesn’t leave. 

It only grows stronger.

Grabbing Gullinbursti’s tusks in either hand, she tells him they are going to find somewhere safe to rest. There is no sign of life here; but Darcy doesn’t want to take any chances, not when she is so far away from anyone that might help her besides Gullinbursti. 

She suddenly wishes she had the forethought to leave a note for Frey and Freya. 

They walk slowly among the hushed gray, black, sickly green, and red barrenness of this alien planet, sifting through the inches-thick ash covering the unyielding yet undulating rock beneath. She knows her feet would be torn to shreds if she didn’t have the boots Nanna had given her, the wooden soles somehow remaining intact despite the no-doubt incinerating heat coming up from the ground. 

Gullinbursti is not so much walking on the ground as hovering just above it.

They are quiet in the trek. With no one to hear them, she’s not sure why . . . not really. The white noise of boiling rock and lava flows, hissing geysers, and that ominous rumble below are constant and almost loud altogether. She needs to concentrate on her footing (the fumes make the air look fuzzy and the terrain unstable), sure, but not so closely she can’t carry a conversation. Yet, some especially well-developed survival mechanism is telling her to be cautious in her actions on all fronts, including announcing herself via speech. She’s aware this place isn’t what it seems. It’s hostile.

The silence gives her time to think – something she doesn’t necessarily want to do. Her thoughts, since waking in Baldr’s house, have been a repeated mantra of panicked, still unanswered, questions, wishes and regrets; and she’s tired of rehashing them over and over and over again. 

But she’s going to, she knows. There’s the wish for more time, to say her love to all her loved ones. There’s the regret of not being able to realize her dream of earning a doctorate, moving on from lab monkey to something more official like PR specialist, activist, lobbyist, or politician. 

She thinks about the personal future she will probably never have – finding a partner, a husband, having children she never knew she wanted until it was too late. She wishes she had told Steve about her feelings before she effectively died; and if the children she would never have resemble him in her imagination – with blonde hair and strong chins – and her – ocean blue eyes and expressive brows – equally, she has no ready excuse.

Not that she actually needs one. She’s on an alien planet made of fire and rock that no carbon based, aerobic organism could possibly survive on because she is no longer a living, breathing human. All things being equal, she figures she deserves a little honest, guilt-free self-reflection.

Frowning, she places a hand on G’s snout, caressing the soft bristles there then pats the tufts of gold on top of his head. It’s strange how the boar feels familiar, how they seem to have some weird bond where he understands what she wants and where she’s going without her having to physically lead him. It’s weirder that she’s leading at all.

What idiot would want her in charge? Who the fuck had made it necessary that she _be_ in charge?

She shakes her head, feeling the pull of the braid Freya had tied in her hair against the gray-and-getting-grayer cloak. Everything would have to be cleaned _thoroughly_ when she got off this hell-hole of a planet.

So, the future she wanted was no longer an option. What now? If she happens to solve all of this, what then? Would she poof into non-existence? End up in Heaven? Valholl? Hel? The fucking insane asylum of the Dreaming? Or – more optimistically – would she be able to return home? If she did, would she remember all of this? Would she forget? And if she retained everything, what did that mean for her friends? Family? _Steve_?

Her breath catches as she coughs, fighting back the feelings of panic the thoughts stir. 

_What if it’s never solved?_

As if sensing her disquiet, Gullinbursti closes the small distance between them, pressing his side against hers, snuffing softly, liquid black eyes boring into her. 

She musters a smile for him, quiet. “I know. Worrying won’t help the situation.” 

They walk on for a long time . . . or maybe a short time, Darcy can’t be sure of anything anymore, including the passage of time. Looking up, her gaze lists to one side where she feels Earth is gleaming like a dim star and wishes she could see past the congestion of this planet’s sky.

Eventually, though the terrain was uneven at the best of times and damn near rock-climbing-required at the worst, Darcy is so lost in her own head she stops leading and instead allows Gullinbursti to guide her away from lava streams, acidic hot springs and charged geysers, her hand holding to the end of his tail.

It’s sometime later that Darcy, having just come to the conclusion that she is the Jon Snow of her own life ( _You know nothing, Darcy Lewis_ ) only without being surrounded by filthy sexy men with swords and badass women who raise dragons, finds herself intimately acquainted with G’s rump when he halts suddenly. 

In normal circumstances, the expletives would have flown with impunity; but G deserves more respect than that and these are the furthest thing from _normal_ circumstances. So, she takes the time to clean her face and spit the ass-stink to the ground before sniffing self-consciously and croaking, “’s up, G?”

The over-sized golden boar gives a soft squeal, just loud enough to be heard over the planet’s own voice. It’s a warning kind of squeal, and his body language reinforces the idea, large muscle groups held tense and massive head lowered to bring the twin blades of his tusks to bear. 

Darcy’s stomach (if she had one) drops to her ankles as her eyes dart to follow Gullinbursti’s only to find herself looking into the sharp, knowing beady eyes of a fully grown black raven. 

She takes a step back, remembering the wolves and readying to run, but the raven neither makes a move nor a sound. He merely watches her, studying and seeing right through her. This isn’t your regular run-of-the-mill raven. This is one of Odin’s misappropriated agents.

It comes to her. “Munnin.” 

The bird ruffles his feathers a bit at the acknowledgement, lifting one foot then the other from its perch upon a rocky outcropping. 

She stares back a moment before she remembers, “It’s hot there, huh?” Then, swallowing nervously, she takes tentative steps forward, one hand moving across the prickly bristles covering Gullinbursti’s near side (a silent sign that she is going to deal with this and he can rest easy), the other reaching out to the raven as an offer of truce.

You know, if she actually _is_ at war with the All-Father. 

Which is fucking impossible because, “Odin’s dead, isn’t he?” It’s framed as a question, but her tone is sure. There is no doubt. She’s as sure of Odin’s death as she is that her eyes are blue, and it’s a stark relief to finally have it out. And though she’s known without knowing _how_ she knows for some time, this is the first time she’s felt the need and the freedom to say it.

The raven leaves its post to settle upon her shoulder, butting his head against the underside of her chin in agreement, in grief. 

Darcy sighs, petting the smooth, shining feathers. “I’m sorry.” And she is. So very sorry and unsure what to do with this information that feels – again – locked up behind her teeth. Her eyes close against the sensation, the reflex to speak her mind only to find she physically cannot. _If I’m not in charge of me, who is?_

The question, despite the burning heat and acidic atmosphere, sends a shiver through the water-born homunculus serving as her body. 

Munnin squawks before taking flight, and Gullinbursti looks back at her, questioning. She sighs again, patting G’s cheek and smiling at the boar wearily. “I think he wants us to follow.” Surveying his course, she notices he’s following one of the larger lava flows upstream.

Gullinbursti does not move, snuffing at her shoulder and rooting at her cloak with a subtle whine. Turning to face her friend, she hugs him as best she can, taking and giving comfort, trying to settle her own nerves. She’s not a superhero, wishes there were one in residence to hold her hand and tell her what to do. The absence of such needed guidance means . . . . well it means she’s going to have to put her faith in instinct (which – bully for her – hasn’t fucked her over yet too badly) so, tentatively, she trusts the bird, believes he wants to lead them to a safe resting place and ultimately decides to take the trail. 

_. . . . it’s not like I have any better offers . . ._

She’s beginning to think this whole trip is a waste and a mistake when they arrive – Gullinbursti taking the rear with all the enthusiasm as a block of wood – to find Munnin perched atop a spike of what looks like a thick pipe of obsidian stabbing through a granite-like rock formation. The surrounding rock piles hide a short entrance to a sizeable cavern with just enough room to house Darcy and her two animal companions.

Gullinbursti has to be coaxed into the space and Munnin only enters after Darcy does; and it occurs to her to wonder how the two living beings with her are withstanding the unlivable conditions of this world. Pulling the end of her braid, Darcy watches from inside the cave as the dust, soot and ash painting the planet in eternal night flash with red lightning and shift with some unknown air current. 

_What am I supposed to be doing here?_

She had been so certain that she needed to be here, still feels that way; but knowing you belong somewhere and knowing why are two entirely different things. Now that she knows the conditions on the ground, Darcy is thinking the second is more important than the first.

As if reading her thoughts, Munnin flaps to her side, finding a new perch on her shoulder – his weight is substantial but she welcomes it, likes the tangibility of his presence. 

“Darcy.”

The voice breaks through her reverie from behind where Gullinbursti is laid out near the furthest, darkest interior wall. In a second, she’s on her feet and turning so fast Munnin has to spread his wings to retain balance; but no one is there, and Darcy is stricken by how alone she is here.

“Darcy.”

Hand pressed to her chest, Darcy turns this way and that but sees no one, hears only her boots sifting the carpet of ash and scraping rocks and the sounds of the planet. _Am I going insane? Then, Of course I’m going insane, I’m fucking not-dead on a fucking volcano planet that other fucking humanoids wouldn’t be able to survive. I’d be insane to not be going FUCKING INSANE._

“Darcy.”

“ **WHAT!!!???** ” It is meant to be an angry scream but comes to just a desperate whisper as she loses all sensation and the world disintegrates and collapses around her, Gullinbursti’s agitated squeal and Munnin’s caw fading in her ears.

****

It went without saying that she was naked. 

_Again._

At this point, Darcy is planning to have clothes grafted to her skin – if she ever gets out of this fucked up situation. Because she officially never wants to be naked ever again. 

_Ever._

Sex can happen with clothes. So can showering. She’d make it work, damn it.

But first –

She looks out over the form of the Dreaming (which – she is trying not to remember – Frey had warned her not to venture into again, because dude, NONE of this is remotely her choice). The bright orange skyline merges near seamlessly with the blood-red tinge of the dirt, the sand a hard, piercing grit between her toes and assaulting her eyes and skin as it flies with the heavy winds. 

There is no vegetation, similar to the rocky Muspell, but that’s where the similarities end. The cracked earth is not riddled with lava. It’s not breathing poisoned steam. It’s not teeming with life beneath the surface. There is no hum or gasp or movement. 

She’s been in this dream before. 

This is Earth after nuclear fallout.

The impotent rage that has been simmering to a boil since _everything_ on this sadistic wonderland of a mind-fuck rises up with a vengeance that tears her up from the soles of her feet to vocal chords that have been silenced way too long, producing a primal scream that pops her eardrums, stretches the skin of her face, aches her teeth, and presses against the backs of her eyeballs.

The sound of it – reflecting a penetrating guttural mix of battle cry, desperate pain, and overall, heart-tearing _grief_ – flies into the space of the Dreaming and quiets quickly. It barely sounds past Darcy’s own ears, doesn’t travel through the air but settles like a stone around her shoulders with a weight she can’t bear.

Her knees hit the ground, scraps of metal and cement biting into her knee caps as her palms press firmly into the debris, fingers flexing into claws and raking into it. Her teeth are grinding behind paling lips, her eyes feel like they are on fire – not from emotion or tears but hot, sweet _wrath_. She didn’t know yet who it is directed at; but there is not an iota of doubt or remorse or _mercy_ in her that when she does find the person, god, alien, or other being responsible for all of this, they are **D.E.A.D.**

Fisting the remnants of earth she brings herself up to standing again, her entire existence shaken and trembling from the outpour of pure fury. The wind has picked up – as if in reaction to her mood – and the dust is like a sandstorm blinding her steps; but she moves forward, knowing where she will find the skeletal Ironman suit with the still beating heart and burning arc reactor. 

She kneels to him, opens the mask and is numb when she finds Pepper’s fleshy face looking back at her, strawberry strands of hair flying against metallic red and eternally open pale green eyes.

Darcy pushes down the urge to vomit, to mourn, with a ruthless kind of determination she’s never experienced before. It’s unsettling and cold and – she thinks distantly – possibly unhealthy but she’s more than fucking tired of the mind games and the lies – visual and otherwise. 

She _knows_ Pepper isn’t here, that the Earth hasn’t been destroyed. She knows everyone that she cares about is still alive. (She has to hold onto that thought, hold onto it with clawed nails and all the strength in her). Someone – Nanna and Baldr, Hogun or Frey – would have told her if they weren’t (or she hopes they would). Reaching for Pepper’s cheeks, to ground herself with the feel of them --

“Darcy?”

The voice is too low to be Pepper, too high to be any of her man-type friends. She drops her hands, numbly stands again and turns – all in her own time. No more playing puppet. No more bowing to forces beyond her control.

Now. From this moment, she’s no one’s bitch. She’s no one’s victim.

And she’s not running anymore.

“Not that the view isn’t great and all, but you’re like a step-daughter / kid sister to me. Why the fuck are you naked?”

The figure is shorter than her, younger than she remembers; but there is no mistaking the intelligent eyes, nervous ticks, and careless fall of dark hair. Recognition makes her at once breathless and laughing and teary, and she just wants it to _STOP_.

Lips move and breath gives voice – rough and shuttering. “Hello Tony.”

The image of pre-teen Tony smirks and crosses his arms over a small chest, rumpling the impeccable button down, “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for me to see you like this.”

Darcy is having exactly none of his shit today. “I’m pretty sure I have no fucks to give right now.”

He blinks as if surprised, his mouth going slack and hands falling back to his sides. She lets him study her fully, noting the analytical look in his eyes – so different from the smug, smouldering confidence of the womanizer. Then, in the smallest voice he’s ever heard from him with the most stricken look she’s ever seen from him, he whispers, “It’s you.”

The thorny ire that’s been stabbing at her insides gives way to a measure of calm, tenderness, _love_. It’s a gentle feeling, warm, a welcome balm for the open wound of her rage; and she doesn’t mask it like she normally would but lets it reflect from her eyes, the release of tight muscles, settling more firmly on her feet. “It’s me.”

He comes closer, eyes wide and familiarly manic, and reaches a hand out toward her arm, as if to touch – very unlike Tony, but stops just before contact. Shaking his head, he moons up at her in child-like wonder, “Foster told me, told us . . . but I didn’t believe it. How does it work?”

Darcy felt the urge to laugh. Of course Tony would ask that. “I don’t know. I’m not even asleep . . . I just collapse or the world falls down and then I’m in someone’s dream . . . usually a nightmare. I’ve only been able to actually talk to you, Jane, and Steve.”

“ _Capsicle_?” He seems equal parts disgusted and intrigued. An intrigued Tony is a dangerous one, she knows, but she can’t muster worry over it. She wasn’t lying. She has a limited amount of fucks to give and all of them are currently occupied. “That’s really . . . _unexpected_.”

He is baiting her and she’s not taking it. “I don’t have much time . . . or I usually don’t.” She lowers herself to kneeling again and closes the distance between them, pulling the young-old-boy-man into her arms, resting her cheek upon the narrow shoulder. 

“ _Darcy_?” It’s shrill and shaky, the tone and enunciation of a scared young child unaccustomed to being loved and touched with affection. His hands are up but don’t touch her, his entire body whipcord tense. She smiles into his sleeve, unable to hear a heartbeat against her ear because this isn’t Tony, just a projection. 

The reality of the unreality _hurts_ in its emptiness. “Just let me have this, Tony. Please?” Her tone and enunciation matches his, reed thin and shaking. She doesn’t say its felt like forever since she felt relaxed and loved. She doesn’t say that touch is like breathing for her – she needs it, craves it, wants to share it. And then she feels his palms against her shoulder blades, pulling her into his slight frame as he whispers assurances that they will find her and bring her back.

No matter what.

She holds onto him a little tighter, this man-child who has become so important to her, like a surrogate child and father in one perfectly imperfect broken-but-patched-up person. “I’m going to kill him.”

“You know who it is?”

It happens faster than a blink of an eye, but it is and it was and her heart stops and burns and she _knows_. “Yes. Tony it’s –“

Then Tony is gone and she’s falling, lost, through an endless black hole, screaming in her mind but silenced by the wad of expletives and vitriol she wants to shout compacting her vocal chords and the consuming thought that she needs to tell someone, needs to tell THOR or STEVE because they are trying to find her in Asgard, and she doesn’t know if either Gullinbursti or Munnin have some kind of psychic links to other friendlies (stranger things have happened).

But even though the thought of communicating her newfound spontaneous deduction is consuming, she still has that boiling pit of _FUCK YOU UNIVERSE_ coiling like a well-fed snake through every fiber, and this isn’t going to end without her god-damn input.

“I’m going to Steve!”

Because fuck this random bullshit. She wants to see Thor, is really, really due for one of the big bro’s monster bear hugs and atomic cuddles (he’s like a humongous yellow Labrador retriever sometimes); and while the Asgardian Prince is one of the best people Darcy’s ever known and badass when the situation calls for it, Steve is all business when it comes to this hero shit. Thor sometimes acts like a good brawl is akin to a frat party. 

She needs that kind of grounded focus right now, wants to hear his Captain America voice say –

“Oof!” Her fall comes to a sudden, unexpected and complete end (so hard her neck feels like it will snap with the rebound) when something big, hard, and handsy catches her in the most awkward princess carry she’s ever had the pleasure to experience. 

Being naked amongst the fully clothed without the sex factor does that. 

“ _Darcy?!_ ” The exasperated sound above her is like angels singing.

She closes her eyes and counts to ten, nose tingling and cheeks aching. _Steve_. She made it.

Her entire body shudders and wants to go limp but instead she studies him with her fingers, winding weak arms around familiar wide-shoulders and settling her forehead to the side of his strong neck, her breasts molding to his well-developed pectorals. _Steve_.

Had she been driven here by whatever forces kept taking her to the Dreaming? Or had she brought herself here through willpower alone? If so, was it really that simple? Just say it and it will be? Just take charge and bend this thing according to her needs? 

Or was Fate screwing with her again?

“Darcy, are you okay?” His Captain America voice. God, _thank you_.

“’m fine,” she says but doesn’t mean it. For the moment, she’s right where she wants to be and that’s something. “I know who started all this bullshit.”

His gaze is so laser focused, the impression of it settles on her skin like a caress. “Darcy, you don’t _look_ fine.” Or, you know, the (disappointing) detached pawing of a medic. 

It’s here she opens her eyes and takes in the chiseled jaw, sculpted cheekbones, and intense blue eyes above the red, white, and blue uniform she knows intimately before widening her attention to the décor. Stillness. Quiet. Black sky. Black water.

She sighs wondering what it all means while understanding this is not the time to ask. “I’m as well as can reasonably be expected.” This is literally the best and most honest she can do before reiterating, “I know who killed me.”

(Laughing at her own morbid joke probably wouldn’t go over well. That and she’s positive he’s never seen the movie. Sometimes she thinks she’s the only one who did.)

The look he gives her is like a knife in the heart (no pun or sarcasm intended). “I’m not worried about that right now. I’m worried about you.”

She wants to tear her hair out and does yank it out of the braid in sheer frustration. After all, they have a carnal history, are (nothing if awkward) friends, she’s bared her soul and body and feelings to him, and he’s just a genuinely nice, responsible type of guy.

Of course, he’s fucking worried about her; but she needs him to be worried about the fucker who targeted her because she has no clue what he will do next or who he will do it to. Where the hell is big!Steve’s sense of urgency? Little!Steve had it in spades. 

Taking his face in her hands, she brings him close till they are nose to nose. “You don’t understand, Cap, it’s -- “ Her brain clamps down on the name as her mouth fills with invisible sand and her tongue suddenly doubles in mass. She coughs violently then tries again, “ . . . “ And nothing but a high pitched whine then strained coughing. Her mouth can’t form the words and her voice is dammed.Fuck. THIS.

“Darcy? What is it?”

“It’s someone close to –“ her body strains in Steve’s hold to eject the words lying dormant across her chest, but she can’t even speak a _hint_. She stops fighting the mental and verbal block, falling to a drained kind of exhaustion before saying in a small voice. “I’m so sick of this.”

Steve begins to sway a little, rocking her, seemingly unconsciously. “I’m glad you’re still . . . . here. Can you tell me where you are . . . physically?”

She nods against his neck, wishing dreams had a scent. “Muspell.”

He jerks in surprise and tries to see her eyes but she wants nothing more than to rest as she is. “Muspell is the home of the fire giants. It’s _uninhabitable_.”

“Trust me. I know. In fact, I’m totally leaving a one-star-because-I-can’t-leave-zero-stars review on Yelp as soon as I get back. The air quality sucks worse than Beijing at high smog and the accommodations . . . rustic doesn’t cut it. They don’t even have dial-up.” She lets out a slow breath. “I’m currently in a cave with Gullinbursti and Munnin.”

“Who?” He doesn’t rebuke her for the lapse of sarcasm which means he’s definitely in Captain mode, parsing out contingencies.

“One’s a boar and the other’s a raven, and no, they can’t fight, but I’m armed.”

His muscles jump beneath her hands and body. He doesn’t like it. She can feel his displeasure like a prickly knit blanket. 

She asks to be put down and – for the first time since she’s been part of his black dreams – she notes her reflection in the water, muted as it is. “Can you rebraid my hair, Steve? I don’t know if that sort of thing translates in reality . . . I have a feeling it will, and I want to keep things consistent, if I can.” Because her appearance, at least, is something that should be predictable.

He nods gravely and she turns her back to him – hesitantly and looking back at him as long as she can (because she doesn’t know if she will have the opportunity after this). 

His hands take up her hair, thick fingers combing through the mussed strands before getting to work grouping, pulling, weaving. She wants to make a joke at how he’s probably making a mess while staring at her ass; but there is an energy enveloping her that she’s never felt before. It tingles her scalp and flows down her spine, sparks and spreads through her limbs. She barely hears him talking.

“We’re almost to Vanaheim. Once we make it there, I’ll ask Frey to show us the way to Muspell.” He nuzzles at her ear as his grip on her became firmer to the point she feels a distinct nearly painful pull at her scalp. “We’re coming for you, Darcy.”

“No. You’re not.”

His hands still. “Yes. We are. Mythology isn’t my specialty, but I remember the fire giants attack on Asgard is what provokes Ragnarok.”

“No. You’re not. There’s no portal to Muspell. They were all destroyed before Thor was born.” She’s . . . honestly not sure how she knows that. Thor never mentions Muspell when they talk about the Nine Realms. Nevertheless, she gives it a moment to sink in, patting the front of his thigh to remind him of his task with her hair. “You’re going to have to wait for me to get back to Freya’s house.”

“Darcy –“ His disappointed tone grates on her.

“No, Steve. There’s a lot I don’t understand about all of this; but I know one thing. There’s something I need to do there, and I have to do it by myself.”

“What the hell could you possibly have to do there?” The movements of his hands on her hair become jerky, quick. He’s agitated, pulling a little too hard as he ties off the plait and she’s not even sorry. 

She’s opening her mouth to answer when the dream explodes with light, and she wakes with a gasp back on Muspell, with Munnin staring down his beak at her from his position on her chest and Gullinbursti mouthing her hand.

“’m okay,” she mumbles. Thankfully, she’s not as weak as she was in the forest where Frey found her – barely there and lightheaded – so she’s reasonably sure the body she was given is undamaged. Still, she finds the wherewithal to open her eyes and finds the rope of her hair to hold it before them. 

Freya’s braid had begun as a waterfall braid circling her head with tiny braids made of the falls then gathered into a single braid down her back. Now, her hair is done in a simple three-strand braid – the extent of Steve’s limited hairstyle knowledge. 

Bringing the plait to her lips, she searches out the dark fire screaming for revenge burning just behind her non-existent rib cage, holds it and finds the strength to stand. Gullinbursti nuzzles the water skin at her side but she ignores his entreaties for her to drink.

The water will still be there later. Now, she needs to figure out what needs to be done.

She scrubs her eyes and looks to the cave entrance where a wall of darkness sits, thick and acrid. Her cloak and dress are stained with it and her skin is gray with a layer of two of ash. Blinking, she realizes that . . . she can see in what should be pitch black and looks around to Gullinbursti whose golden bristles are glowing like optic fibers and producing light similar to a horse-sized flame. 

“Well, that’s convenient. Thanks, G.” And then her entire being stops as her gaze reaches up and behind the big boar to find that the back of the cave is not a wall of stone and stalactite but an open entryway, cut high (tall enough for a stooped giant) with a regularity that lets her know this is not a natural phenomenon. And – though she can’t see fully into the dug out catacomb – it’s clear this is not just a simple short cut of a passageway because as she moves to inspect this new discovery, Gulllinbursti’s light illuminating the way, the slatted shelves and racks carved into the walls reveal a vast armory of swords, guns, canons and a variety of blunt weapons that chill her from the insides. An entire mountain had been hollowed out for this. It is obvious, the fire giants want war.

And they plan to bring it soon.

Darcy places a hand to the back of G’s full neck, the fingertips of her other hand resting purposefully at the talons grasping at her cloaked shoulder. She had been about to tell Steve she did’t know; but now . . . now she knows exactly what she is meant to do. Breathless, “Okay. Okay. Can’t fight a war without weapons, right? Let’s get to work.”

****

Freya is roused from her bed two nights after the Lady disappears with Gullinbursti with news of three travelers come to break their fasts, seek succor, and beg supplies. 

Knowing, as she does from visions and seid, the travelers’ identities and aims, she takes care with her vestments – a gown of silver and pearl, she thinks - and decorates her hair with shells and flowers, and debates wearing the Brisingamen, ultimately decides to leave the glowing jewels for another opportunity.

There will be many questions. Frey will be distraught (as he has been for all of Gullinbursti’s absence, the great insufferable clod), and no doubt cry into his cups. She is aware of the degree of authority she must wield to stay dear Thor’s hand and satisfy his companions without inciting them to action too soon.

The young Midgard lady will be wanting more time yet to complete her Fate given task, and Freya is only in agreement. A subtle touch will be essential for the meeting hence. There is simply too much at stake to grant passion rule and ruin.

As she treads the rushes and the torches come to light with each step closer to the hall, she girds her loins and welcomes the calm detachment a seer will – in the interest of self-possession – cultivate to better decipher the future without a shade of bias. 

She can hear Frey’s voice like budding fruit breaking the quiet and merging with the soft ripple of torch flames. Thor pierces through with a rolling sort of laughter reminding her of thunder shot despite the clear night. Hogun is there as well, the fellow Vanir sitting with his back to the house proper in an unusual display of comfortable trust that she will speak to him about later. 

Another, a Midgardian in Aesir clothing by the look of him, stands alone at the edge of one doorway like a sentinel, tall and imposing. This man is someone wholly reliable and good – not a common combination in any world she has knowledge of. But he is also young, no matter the air of hyper-maturity she can trace in his scowl, and given to instinct and action though discipline has taught him the value of patience and planning. 

She smiles softly, noting the weave of his connection to the Lady Darcy easily. It fairly gleams around him like a beautiful iridescent armor but flickers intermittently with a strange shadow of uncertainty. She will be sure to speak to him soon and privately.

Reaching the table the newcomers and her twin have chosen, she catches Thor’s gaze and gestures discreetly to the man standing aside. _The Lady’s paramour?_ Thor does not hesitate in nodding an affirmation, and Freya’s heart aches in common suffering.

She knows the gaping, festered emptiness of losing a lover and spouse, what sweet torture it is to know that person is just beyond your reach. 

“Your Shield Sister is a lovely child though she did take Gullinbursti without notice or question. I will need recompense for the loss of my companion, brother.” Frey’s complaint breaks into her study of the man-by-the-door, so boorish in its delivery and timing, she cannot stay her hand from swiping at his head.

Recovering from the blow, Frey glares up at her from his seat. “What do you mean by assaulting me, dear sister?”

“What do you mean by demeaning _my_ prior guest to my current guest? The Lady Darcy had need of Gullinbursti’s talents. I did borrow him on her behalf and will make recompense by allowing you to remain as you are under _my_ roof though I have a mind to turn you out.”

She suppresses a pleased grin when his face flushes beneath the sun-darkened skin under his beard, turning her attention to her guests. “Need you refreshment, friends?” 

“You said Darcy needs Gullinbursti’s talents. I’d like to know what those are.” The Midgardian speaks out of turn – a slight she would ordinarily punish; however, she can appreciate his hasty sort of austerity. 

Casting a sidelong glance, Freya schools her features into a pleasant but distant expression. Such a man would not wish for comfort or assurance but plain answers. “Of course. My brother was gifted with the beast and will, no doubt, take pleasure expounding on his pet.”

Frey, still stinging from the previous tongue lashing, follows his sister’s implied order and addresses the room. “My steed is a most able and dedicated creature able to provide light where there is none, skilled in the breaking and digging of ground and traveling land, sea, and air with more speed than any horse or bird. “ He levels the Midgardian with a bare expression, “You may rest easy, friend. Gullinbursti will watch over the Lady with the same ferocity reserved for his master.”

Thor nods jauntily and vouches for Gullinbursti’s strength and valor, and Freya takes his attention to the matter at hand as a signal to send for a bit of cold stew, bread and cheese with a pot of beer to sustain them.

She excuses herself as a smirk teases at the corners of her mouth, hearing the “Captain” named “Steven” tell his companions his plans to help her with this – apparently – difficult (by Midgardian standards) task. Though she is not over much disappointed for it seems the time for her planned disclosure has come with greater speed than anticipated.

Better, she thinks, that it be this way.

He catches her after several beats, but she does not speak until they are well shadowed and on their way to the larder. “What shall I call you, Midgardian?” 

She hears more than sees him rake a hand through his hair, blue eyes flaming beneath thick lashes. “I apologize. I’m Steve Rogers. At your service, ma’am.”

Silently, she nods, accepting the offer and leading him to the kitchen. The servants are all abed, and she does not wish to wake them. Not for this. This problem is best dealt with in the isolation of family and those directly involved.

As she finds a tray, directs Steven to the dishes, and sets to choosing a bit of nearly over ripe fruit, she decides on transparency . . . in some small measure that will not alter the way of things. “You will be cheered that your Lady was well and able when last I saw her. Muspell is a harsh world, housing many perils; however, she is a strong woman, equal to any of our own warriors in temerity, intelligence, and sincerity.”

He is setting cups and bowls upon the tray, occasionally touching fingertips to the place just above the lower portion of his breastbone – just frequently enough to be noticed, and does not raise his eyes to her. “I’ve heard . . . that there are no portals between Muspell and other worlds.” Here, there is a sigh – heavy and vaguely mournful , as he meets her gaze without censure or embarrassment. “How did she get there?”

Musing how strange it is that he does not question what sort of dangers Muspell offers, Freya holds her tongue, contemplates the actual inquiry. Twas a simple enough question that did not reveal that which she could not reveal. “Gullinbursti can also swim the rivers between worlds with little trouble.”

The tray is full and there is a tankard of beer in her hands; and Freya cannot take her eyes from the Captain’s hands, gripping tightly as he picks up the tray with excessive tension in his arms, shoulders while his features are deceptively mild. 

She smiles gently, allowing her face to reflect the understanding behind her eyes. “The Fire Giants will not get the best of her, Captain. In fact, they may well live to rue the day she appeared. And when she is done with her task, you will find her well and at rest in my brother’s realm of Alfheim.”

The expression he gives her is strange – earnest and calculating and stricken all at once. (Certainly, if all Midgardians were to prove so charming and expressive, perhaps it is no wonder two of her brothers found love there). “Thank you, but can you tell me what she’s doing there? And . . . once she’s on Alfheim, do you think we’ll be able to get her back in her body on Earth?”

“I confess I have mulled over the second quite thoroughly and am no closer to even a theorized resolution. I shall consult my brother on the morrow when our minds are fresh and the light brings clarity.” Here she turns grave, meeting his eyes, full and direct and unyielding. “As for the first, I should think t’ would be obvious.”

He seems to take this in, his brows screwing up into a tight knot and his lips thinning over his teeth. “Please. Enlighten me.”

Giving a slow nod, she measures her words, knowing they will not be welcome, following the instinct to say what must be said. “My dear Captain Steven of Midgard, the Lady Darcy is gathering an army.”

****

It’s been days, weeks, months – _fuck the time!_ – but they have nearly emptied the cave of weapons. (It’s becoming more and more apparent how absolutely convenient it is that she doesn’t need regular sustenance for energy). Darcy takes trips carrying what she can while Munnin flies while transporting smaller parts in his beak or grasped in his talons and Gullinbursti hauls _load after load_ tied on with torn strips of her nightgown, carved tools (courtesy of Hlin’s knives and boar tusks), and other available resources while they all dodge detection when the odd fire giant walks near the cave. They dump everything in the nearest lava flow where she hopes it will a) melt into _nothing_ or b) sink into the stuff so deep, no being will ever be able to survive retrieval. 

It helps that some of the loaded elements explode when heat is applied. She very almost got her head blown off for her troubles when the air ignited in the vicinity; but she is ever cautious after that incident to remove the ignition elements (usually glowy stuff that would have made human!Darcy completely paranoid about becoming some horror movie type mutant (not the X-men kind) from radiation poisoning but makes undead!Darcy think things).

‘Course, caution doesn’t mean shit when there is a fucking _G.I.A.N.T._ staring you down while you hold some sort of shoulder cannon over a red hot river of melted rock, metal, and volcanic glass. 

Distantly, the part of her that could still produce thoughts that did not involve wanting to throw a temper tantrum, run screaming or faint on the spot, thinks _Of course it’s a giant. Fifteen plus feet tall, rock for skin, and glowy veins with fire for eyes. Yep. Definitely a fire giant._

Then she notices the other forms in the murky air and amends herself, giant _S. Fire Giants. Plural._

Nerveless (ha!) fingers drop the cannon which had been (it needs to be said) deactivated. Because all the freaking weapons in that freaking cave had been primed as if they needed to be battle ready at any moment – just pick and shoot, like the inhabitants of this Aesir-forsaken planet were expecting an invasion . . . or a signal to INVADE.

Considering the toxic, ugly, incompatible-with-life environment, the second made a shitload more sense.

Of course, where the signal would be coming from, she had no idea; and honestly, she didn’t really give a fuck (as mentioned before, she currently has an extremely limited amount of fucks to give available). All she cares about at this moment, staring up between the legs of a fucking giant three times her size (possibly more) staring equally shocked back at her was simple survival. 

But she has a feeling that running would only make matters worse so she remains frozen still, watching and waiting for the other shoe (ha!) to drop. (Jesus, her sense of humor had become a dark and morbid thing).

Gullinbursti’s forehead was a warm, solid plane against her back, his tusks neatly bracketing her body. He smells of fire, dirt, and – strangely – wood smoke. His tusks are layered in mud and his golden bristles are coated over with ash and soot, dulling his usual shine. Besides transporting weapons for mass destruction, he’s also been burrowing into the floor of the cave and other places nearby . . . for safety purposes.

Darcy knew it was too much to ask to avoid detection forever.

His presence gives her some assurance that she isn’t alone in this. She doesn’t know where the hell Munnin has gotten off too. _Fucking useless bird_ , she thinks sourly. 

All of that being said, she has to give herself props for not completely losing her shit. She is actually pretty fucking calm, like the boss she always believed herself to be. She shoots a glare up at the crusty (ha!) asshole staring her down (pretending her knees aren’t shaking) and mentally tries to emulate a block of dry ice . . . permafrost . . . _liquid helium_ . . . 

As she watches the twin flames of his eyes, she notices the grating motions of his jaw working – as if he’s grinding his teeth. He probably is. It sounds like the hollow rumble of rock crunching rock.

And somehow, she isn’t afraid. Nervous, sure. Afraid, no. This kinda weird sci-fi horror shit has become almost _normal_ to her; and she doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. 

Probably not the greatest thing. Especially since a part of her – the very best part of her – seems subdued by the cold airs she’s adopted as she continues to glare. Her legs begin to feel heavy – absurdly grounded, her hands curl into tight fists. Whatever material acting as her muscles begins to bunch and flex in preparation for . . . something, and she can suddenly see how this is going to play out in her mind. It doesn’t play like a movie or anything like that. The sequence is simply knowledge, like a history lesson she’s already learned and memorized. 

“Well, hello there neighbor. Any chance you can get off my lawn so I can get back to my business?” The shit-eating grin is meant as a statement in and of itself. _I’m not afraid of you or your rock band army._

The Fire Giant currently towering over her speaks in spurts of belching fire and hissing gas while his eyes snap with orange and blue flares. It’s not a language she knows – neither syllabic nor intonation, yet she understands everything he is saying.

**“Who are you, insect?”**

He’s not nearly big enough to squash her like a bug; but stepping on her would cause enough damage that she would not be able to move on from this place. Calm or not, she is keenly aware there is no Frey to feed and water her, there are no Avengers to avenge her. She presses her back just a touch harder against Gullinbursti’s head. _Be ready to move. On my mark._

“You know who I am. You know why I’m here.”

It is true enough, she can tell from the narrowing of his eyes and the way he spits her full name out like rancid tobacco juice, globs of lava hissing through the air to land as steaming, molten rock.

“That’s right. And you can tell the rat bastard you’re taking orders from that I’m not too keen on his recent behavior.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, where her normal mortal self still lives, Darcy is screaming. _Loudly_. Because the words are vaguely antagonistic, pointed, sharp, (unbelievably delivered without a hint of stutter or shudder). She knows this stalemate isn’t going to end easily or cleanly; but she just can’t help herself. 

The giants move as one (maybe they have a group mind? Like bees? How fucking fantastic would that be?), their massive bodies priming for attack at the slightest gesture from their leader; but fiery eyes continue the staring war burning through the space between them, and Darcy isn’t backing down. He breathes a denial. No one orders him. There is no one to report to.

“Isn’t there.” It’s not a question. “Whatever he promised you is impossible. You won’t invade Asgard. You won’t take that world. It’s not time for Ragnarok, Surt.”

His lava gaze shifts, becomes more focused on her eyes as if he can see right into her with that piercing look; and she feels a twinge of fear suddenly, the primordial cold behind her eyes failing to combat the fury of his. His mouth opens into a craggy smile, revealing that his teeth are _blocks_ of shining obsidian and his tongue is the hue of olivine.

**“Asgard will burn in time. For now, I aim to bring _you_ and the rest of your insect brethren to ash.”** He laughs and the ground moves beneath her feet. “Midgard shall be a lovely ember.”

The words he speaks shatters the frozen calm like ice cracking to drown her in cold waters, and then there is nothing but the barely contained fury, hot and molten like the lava flows just to the right of her, singeing the hem of her cloak, the sides of her shoe soles. 

The feeling is so swift, so poignant and intense that she imagines her entire body is pure energy. It tingles through the roots of her hair, ticks at her jaw, powers her limbs, and slows her breathing to placid. She feels strong and focused and ready for battle in a way that is completely alien.

Plans begin unraveling in the back of her mind. She is going to maim this fucker. She’s going to maim him and then she’s going to decimate his fucking army. But she’s not going to make the first move. No. Starting an interstellar war isn’t something she’s willing to claim. 

So she grins in a biting sort of sadistic way that feels strange on her face as her hand discreetly palms one bracer, touching one knife, a second, then notching the third dagger between her fingers. “Those things are things that will not happen. Sorry, not sorry.”

He laughs again, this time harder, and though she comes close to losing her stance, she keeps her footing . . . the strength siphoning into her granting an enhanced sense of balance. She wonders if this is what superheroes feel like when facing down an enemy – sure, calm, and completely trusting their ability to kick ass – because if that is how it actually is, sign her up.

**“Who would dare stop me, insect? You? You are nothing but a water skin half empty.”**

It’s Darcy’s turn to laugh, and that teensy part of her that is still a normal millennial who loves her family and friends and is suspended a credit hour away from a degree feels that the sound of it is just a touch on the hysterical side. Because . . . she’s starting to get it, her brain(?), running through a million memories, grasping at certain suspicions and running through the implications as swiftly as the taste for fury and vengeance she seems to be developing. It tastes dark and coppery like blood.

_The faster and farther one runs from their fate, the swifter and closer Fate shall pursue._ That’s what Frey had said, but she isn’t – wasn’t – running from anything because . . . . . He wasn’t referring to _her_.

She had thought so, at first, because it seemed at the time that she had been running from things: the awkward _whatever-it-was-between-them_ thing with Steve (because – seriously – he’s a good guy and right now she’s positive he doesn’t deserve the way her moods have been shifting at break-neck speed), her family’s expectations, finishing her degree, and anything remotely to do with adulting in general. But – upon deeper reflection – she hadn’t been running so much as she had been evaluating which way to turn next. 

The one running is the dick who did this to her, and she . . . she is the one being drafted to fix afore-mentioned dick’s mess. 

As all of this steamrolls through her thoughts, and before she can start questioning why _**she**_ might be drafted to fix Dickhead’s mess, Surt roars and attacks. He takes her bodily and slams her into the side of the mountain she had been using as a base of operations. 

It’s really strange. She hears the way her body crunches into the rock face, a sickening thing that isn’t at all dampened by the roaring giants before her. She can feel the impact, the scrape and stab of a million shards of rock at her back through the clothes. She can see (when her neck stabilizes and she feels confident opening her eyes) fragments of stone and the disturbed dust flying around her, hitting her face, trailing her body, tangling in her hair. She can smell the scent of ozone freshly mixed with the now-familiar sulfure, wood smoke, and brimstone. 

And somehow, she’s not hurt or phased at all. 

Gullinbursti is squealing and kicking his hooves against the jagged formations, ash, and soot below but she shushes him with a look before turning to face Surt’s blazing eyes up-close-and-personal. Every muscle in her face falls to the flattest of frowns. All signs of warmth in her eyes cools into chips of hardened ice.

He would have to be blind and dumb as rocks (ha!) to think she is playing around anymore – if she ever was at all.

“Before I answer your very valid if absolutely condescending questions and comments, I want to know what the Prince of Darkness promised you. I want to know why the fuck you thought this could be a good idea.”

**“You dare question a king, insect?”** His face contorts into an expression of incredulity, barking out a hissing, choked laugh. **“Nay, an insect has more substance than the dying remains of a virus.”**

Darcy’s goals are few and simple; and they do not include bandying words with him. “Did he promise you glory? Power? Because I hate to break it to you, Surt-man, it isn’t your time. You will never have the type of glory you want. You will never have the power you hunger for. Even if you had a chance at succeeding, Dickface Mcgee would have taken it all for himself. You call me nothing but a virus; but viruses _destroy_ , they cause sickness and death and chaos. They are much more than nothing, and **I** am much more than _you_.”

She feels something along her back tear, the seeping of something warm and airy and her vision goes dark for just a moment before energy crackles like poprocks from her center and throughout her body, so much more than before and just as unexpected. It is almost an audible hum like power lines in the summer, the vital flow of strength that infuses every cubic inch of her; and just like with the wolves, everything in her quiets – the fear and rage and normalcy – so that she can, in that bare moment – to become something else . . . something different and yet, _her primal self_.

Her gaze darkens, taking in the evil light of Surt’s and refusing to even reflect it back. “I will not allow you to destroy Midgard or Asgard or any other world.”

**“You cannot stop Fate, insect.”**

The smile that curves her mouth is not pleasant. It’s not witty or gentle or glib. Rather it is cutting, sharp, judging and fierce. And the words that break that smile are no less so, sweeping out of her with a gravity that is heavier than her own knowledge. “I’m not here to stop your fate, Surt. I’m here to deliver it personally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on tight kiddies. Darcy isn't playing no mo'.
> 
> Next time: Chapter 8: Grid of Utgard  
> Darcy figures things out, takes charge, and finds the Elivagar (sorta) finally . . . among other things.
> 
> Mythology and other notes:
> 
> 1\. the braid thing -- only partially true. Some cultures did believe that braids signified valuable traits in the person. Some believed that fixing someone's hair held significance in their relationship. I'm totally twisting this to my own ends.  
> 2\. bestefar -- grandfather in Norwegian  
> 3\. Muspell - one of the nine realms, home of the fire giants ruled by Surt and birthplace of stars  
> 4\. Munnin -- one of two ravens Odin uses to spy on the nine realms  
> 5\. Freya is married but her husband is perpetually missing. She still searches for him and cries tears of gold for him.  
> 6\. Per the comic, Gullinbursti can fly through space, glow, and possesses other abilities not found in the myths.  
> 7\. Surt, in the myths, begins Ragnarok by crossing the Bifrost with his sons (army?) with the aim of burning the world down.


	8. The Silent God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy comes into her power. Jane is going crazy. Hogun figures stuff out; and connections are made.

_This is how it starts:_

Surt bellows in Darcy’s general direction, tightening the flex of his palm. “ _ **You cannot stop Fate, insect**_.”

Bleeding out mystical waters, clutched in a stone hand attached to a giant stone body, Darcy isn’t amused. The smile that curves her mouth is not pleasant. It’s not witty or gentle or glib. Rather it is cutting, sharp, judging and fierce. And the words that break that smile are no less so, sweeping out of her with a gravity that is heavier than her own knowledge. “I’m not here to stop your fate, Surt. I’m here to deliver it personally.”

It isn’t an idle or empty threat.

She feels similarly to when she stabbed the wolf – _Freki_ , her mind whispers – only moreso. There is a surreal calm that suffuses her every cell, a clarity that sharpens her sight to the degree she can see all that _is_ being experienced while the bare outline of _what shall be_ moves across her field of vision just as clearly.

And even though she doesn’t have the words or a name to describe what is happening to her, Darcy accepts it, owns it, feels a completeness she never knew she needed: as if all her life she had been struggling - jumping and stumbling around - only aware of and able to use her right foot when all-of-a-sudden she became aware of and able to use her left as well. 

Surt seems to know more than she does, the crags of his face becoming rougher about the edges as he spits lava and fire, his jaw dropping and head falling back as his soulless hell-spawn eyes darken with fear to wheeze. “ _ **You!**_ ”

The acknowledgement is at once fitting and confusing, and with it, the outcome of this meeting opens before her with terrific implications.

Swallowing nothing, Darcy steadies herself, lowers her eyes to find – first – Gullinbursti, his large body tense and trembling, ready to defend at her order. She’ll have to let him know that she remembers him now, that she knows they have been friends for a long time. Second, she aims her gaze to Munnin, his perch just above and behind the fire giant king. A black beady eye bores into her before he takes flight, screaming above the heads of a writhing, fiery army.

Seriously, it kind of reminds her of the troll army in the Lord of the Rings movies. _So what is she? Frodo?_

An otherworldly calm settles over her, fizzing along her skin and threading into her artificial flesh to reach into her essence. It is tinged with a bitter sort of helpless regret.

She knows what she has to do. Her voice is the weapon. The words must be precise and correct but not permanent. Surt is meant to destroy Asgard and Midgard one day and die while doing so. That is his ultimate destiny, and she cannot make that destiny void.

_So . . ._

With a blinding sort of confidence, Darcy allows herself to meet Surt’s gaze, nakedly, unflinching and head on. The entire planet seems to become suspended in time for that moment. No movement, no sound, no signs of life, just . . . complete stasis, as if the universe itself is holding its breath.

_No pressure._

“ _Surt_ ,” her voice rings out – at once familiar and something else altogether – with a strange, warped echo that shouldn’t be possible in this climate, “ _King of the Fire Giants, Master of Muspell._ ”

The address seems important, necessary. Darcy ferociously stamps down the rising self-doubt, the confusion and questions that have circled her thoughts over and over since this whole adventure began. It is simply not the time to continue her on-going existential crisis.

“ _You are an example to your brethren. You shall lead them where I will._ ”

This, the precursor. It is not only Surt needing subjugation but all of the fire giants. They all stand, stupidly tall and massive and unnervingly quiet. Darcy takes a moment to appreciate the power she has somehow come into, takes a moment to fear it and feel the responsibility settle onto her shoulders. Briefly, distantly, she wonders if this is how her super friends felt at first, if the hollow feeling of unworthiness and primal confusion ever goes away.

Gritting her teeth and straightening her spine (or whatever it is taking the place of it), she steels her resolve again even as her hand stretches and fingers notch against one of Hlin’s daggers.

_And now, the end game._

“ _Sleep for now. Lie dormant in the womb of this world until three aeons have passed._ ”

As soon as the last syllable leaves her lips, Darcy deflates, feeling drained and light-headed. With flagging strength, she thrusts the dagger into Surt’s hand, burying the blade there and whispers, “ _Awake when the King of the Fire Giants rises to take Asgard. Awake and be as a fiery sword fitting to such a hand._ ”

The universe breathes again, Muspell heaves a great sigh that rumbles across the surface, the vibrations causing more of the water sustaining her to flow out.

She knows what will happen as the giants begin to scream – the sound so loud and deep, it’s like an earthquake shaking the ground beneath but also the air and all the bodies between. Rock beneath them tears open like fabric under pressure, the lava breaks into the spaces, flooding up to the giants’ feet. 

Gullinbursti squeals and grunts as he takes to hovering above the increasingly violent geological flux.

The planet’s stoney crust begins to buckle and lurch while in other places, everything grates to a fine sand before swirling into liquefaction. Still, near Surt – who is blindly grasping at nothing and screaming so loudly Darcy feels as if she will explode with the intensity of the roar – the grating sound of rock sliding against rock adds to the dangerous levels of noise as the earth beneath them collapses only to shoot up, grafting to the giants and committing to a wild dance – pulling them down into the core while also encapsulating them in their own flesh – rock and stone and metal and fire.

Despite being the catalyst, Darcy is not immune to the chaos. Her already battered (and still entrapped) body is hit with flying gravel and rock, covered in an even heavier layer of soot and dirt and piercing volcanic glass, burned in places by spattered lava and belching fire as the force of the planet’s transformation threatens to toss and break her apart.

She doesn’t have enough energy to cry out. She can only be grateful she can’t feel a thing.

Surt curses her over and over, his words clear and the meaning certain even though he’s speaking his own language. He finally lets her go, his fist spasming open just enough as the devouring earth takes his leg and arm, coating his neck and the left side of his face in mottled quartz. 

His primal shrieks, echoed by his brethren, shatter her concentration and thoughts into fragmented chaos until they are completely silenced.

For a moment, she is suspended and wonders if this is it even though she (somehow – can she even say that anymore?) knows it’s not. The incomplete movie of the future is still playing behind her eyes even as she takes in the fucking ocean of lava churning just below her and tries to accept the hard, burning landing she’s evidently in for. Closing her eyes, she fervently thinks again, _Thank God I can’t feel anything_.

But for all the pictures of things to be in her mind, taunting her with her fault and responsibility in them (no matter how unwillingly she’s been placed in this position), she does not anticipate the claws grasping tightly at her cowl, scraping the skin at her nape, and ripping at the strands of her hair. She cannot predict the impact of her fall against powerful muscle and dense bone covered in glowing golden bristle.

She smiles into the sweaty boar’s hide, smells his blood and pets his back weakly. “Hi Gully.” The name is breathed with reverence and nostalgia as she remembers meeting him for the first time when she was five years old. “Please. Take me somewhere cold.”

The noise of the still screaming giants, the roaring of the torn up, scorched up planet is muted against the nothing of space as Gullinbursti heaves and grunts them up, up, up through the rapidly heating, changing atmosphere to the vacuum of heaven. She clutches herself to him, finding comfort in the soft feathers against her cheek, the beak burrowed against her neck and the warm bulk moving beneath her.

And, strangely, the last thought before a well-deserved sleep is, _Where the hell are my glasses_?

AtRoY

_This is how it proceeds_ :

Thor is in Freya’s stables, brushing Hofvarpnir with aggressively vigorous strokes that are only a fraction meditative. At Frey and Freya’s insistence, they shall await Darcy’s return in Alfheim and preparations to move are many and tedious. His muscles burn with the need of release that sparring and manual labor and other physical pursuits have not slaked. It buzzes into his bones and clouds up his thoughts with something tasting too like desperation.

Mjolnir is likewise disturbed, sending out shocks and static against his will at random moments.

Darcy should not be so difficult to find. 

Darcy should never have been lost in the first.

He resumes in brushing, not even noticing when he stopped. 

Waiting is not something he is neither particularly fond of doing nor even particularly good at. He had once put Mjolnir through a television during a set of commercials because the show he had been enjoying had left on a cliffhanger. Jane had been explosively upset. Darcy had laughed that full-belly laugh of hers, draped herself across his lap and proclaimed “best resolution ever”.

Feeling frustrated with his impotence in the situation, he throws the brush with all his strength (the hole it leaves in the wall only grates on him more), narrowly missing Freya’s head as she enters, garbed in riding gear with hair pulled back into a coronet, gloved fingers rubbing along the golden links of the Brisingamen at her neck. 

Wordlessly, she gives him a look, one eyebrow raised, nostrils flaring and lips pursed. 

Freya is as a much older, much wiser and _patient_ cousin; and though her temper is generally agreeable, Thor finds himself cowed by her glare, bowing his head as she approaches and murmuring an appropriate apology for his regressive behavior.

Wordlessly, she pats his shoulder then rubs the area, open handed, a sign of forgiveness. 

The air between them is weighted and strained like a well-made, well-kneaded dough, the result of many hours of argument regarding Darcy and the known-but-secret future. The uneasy truce they have agreed upon is still new and tentative. Both are still on the defensive against the other, their eyes shadowed with a shielding wariness.

Thor attempts a smile of greeting but it slips off his face like oil. Freya nods in acknowledgement then breaks the tense silence. “Whilst I stay my vow of silence on the matter of the Lady Darcy’s movements, allow me to assure you of her continued safety.” 

With intentionally pointed steps, Thor fetches the brush and resumes grooming Hofvarpnir with more control, a little more gently. “You have repeatedly said as much. I fail to understand your continued reticence in revealing her current whereabouts if not Muspell as she confessed to friend Steven.”

It’s not quite the truth. His own mother had been gifted with the sight of the Vanir and had made a vow long before her marriage to the All-Father never to speak of her visions aloud. Freya had always been of a similar mind; however, under certain circumstances, she was sometimes willing to give hints or clues.

He can see it in the distant tangled reflection in her eyes as she presses a finger to her lips and, “I will grant you this: The Lady is with a friend . . . . a very good friend of yours. Someone you have not thought on for many years.”

The tension only grows along his shoulders, sends uncomfortable tingles along the backs of his arms into the extremity of his fingers. “Yet, you still withhold her location.”

“Understand, little cousin,” her voice takes on an imperious lilt as the skin of her cheeks flush with indignation, “should I reveal of what is or what shall be in regards to our beloved niece will surely change her current destination . . . and all other paths lead to the end of her history, memory . . . her very existence.”

***

_Meanwhile, on another world_ :

“Where the hell are Darcy’s glasses?” Jane is in the throes of some twisted sort of panic attack, ransacking their apartments in Stark Tower, swearing under her breath that they were on the coffee table near the door to Darcy’s room just before Thor and Steve left for Asgard. “I know they were there!”

Natasha watches the scientist with a detached kind of interest as she stomps from one end of the room to the other, occasionally rifling under assorted materials here then tearing cushions off another piece of furniture there. 

“Why do you need them?” It seems a pertinent question. Darcy certainly can’t use them right now. Not only because she’s in a coma but also because she’s several hundred miles away under Hawkeye’s watchful guard . . . at least bodily. Natasha’s realm of experience does not include spiritual beings in other star systems.

Jane is now on her knees looking under the sofa. “I just –“ Her head pops up, hair all over the place and red-faced, “need to know where they are!”

Natasha, silent and watching, gets it. When you feel helpless, you need to grasp onto things you can control. And when you feel lost, you try to find something of substance to hold onto. Jane – already dealing with more than just work stress and a new pregnancy – most likely feels like she is about ready to burst out of her own skin.

Patient, the red-head waits until Jane is again upright to steer the woman to sitting before handing her a bottle of water. It should be said, not one of them had known to what lengths Darcy would have to go to on a daily basis to keep the scientist fed, watered, and organized. The job has since been split among them with nightly meetings to discuss operations for the next day even as they rotate Darcy-watch.

“It’s fine. I know where they are.”

Jane has her mouth open to question, to demand (such is the state of her very palpable unease), but Friday speaks from the rafters and addresses Dr. Foster-there-is-a-visitor-in-the-lobby. When they learn of the visitor’s identity, Jane shrugs at nothing and tells the AI to send him up, please. 

It’s not long before they hear a knock at the door. Natasha already has a drink in hand while Jane hugs the newcomer – Darcy’s teen brother, Derek Lewis - asks him how he’s been, how did he get here and do his parents know where he is?

Natasha has been trained to read people. It is, at the most basic level, her job. She can see people’s secrets, read their worries, and know their history simply by the way they part their hair. Derek is young and untried and open. The tension in his face, the unkempt tangle of his short hair, the quick-stuttered pace of is breath and the shortness of his words are all indicative of fear and a desperation to trust.

He refuses refreshment, sits but is not still. He jitters and shifts and pops back up to his feet several times before trying – visibly – to settle, bottom halfway off the sofa cushion, one hand clutching a notebook and the other white knuckled at his knee. 

Jane catches Nat’s eye before taking point, lowering herself down beside the boy. 

They don’t have to say anything, don’t even have to breathe in his direction. He simply comes apart, glancing at Jane and Natasha and the walls in random, quick succession. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to tell and then I thought, Darcy deals with this weird stuff all the time and . . . . but she’s not . . . h . . here and then I remembered Dr. Foster said you guys would always be there for us and . . . . . “

“Why don’t you tell us what this visit is about?” Natasha breaks in quietly, gently. She can see how off kilter Derek is, how nervous and afraid. She wants to assuage that nervousness, comfort that fear. “Then we’ll see how we can help.”

He stares at her as if she has all the answers, with a palpable gratitude. “I . . . I don’t know how to draw. None of us do, really. My family is the antithesis of artistic.” It’s something Darcy has said and the familiarity of the sentiment, hits hard. “B . . . but, I think it was . . . about a week after Darcy’s . . incident,” - they haven’t come to a consensus on what to call the tragedy that has befallen their special little clique. Natasha prefers to call it The Event – “these pictures started . . . _appearing_ in my notebook.”

Here, he places the notebook, turned to a seemingly random page, face up onto the coffee table with trembling fingers. The image there is beautifully and painstakingly rendered in graphite and ink with Darcy’s face looking up at them, her expression tranquil but determined, the eyes blazing out somehow despite the haze of smeared medium and spilled soda.

Natasha ventures closer, seating herself on Derek’s other side, pressing forward, running her fingertips over the contours of her friend’s memorialized face and noting the surrounding detail. Her hair is matted, there is something banded about her body . . . something irregular and solid . . . rock? A hairy _something_ stands aground, just a bit of scruff peeking around the margin. And above . . . near the top of the page, the beady eyes and sharp beak of a bird with a dark face. 

Jane gently asks if she can look at the book in more depth and Derek buries his paling face in both hands, nodding jerkily. 

Gingerly, the notebook is taken in the scientist’s hands, the cardboard cover flattened and the pages flipped to the beginning. The first several pages are nothing but notes and math equations – a normal high schooler’s homework. Natasha makes note of the dates at the top of the pages, grows more focused as they grow nearer the date of The Event. 

And then – just as Derek alleged – a week after, the first picture is there between Latin declensions and an outline of the French Revolution: Darcy stabbing a feral, humongous wolf in the eye while in mid-lunge, her face a mask of cold indifference. 

“Oh . . my . . stars,” Jane whispers, flipping through more pages of notes and assignments. The second sketch is done in sharpie: again, the angle presents Darcy’s back but she is looking in a mirror, her appearance recognizable but for a few slight – nearly unnoticeable – changes. She is wearing a flowing off-shoulder night gown, one hand at her chest, fingers framing a scar at the center. 

_Where the dagger had . . ._

“You say you’re not an artist,” Natasha knows her tone is harsh, but she can’t find it in her to soften it, “who is drawing this?”

Derek doesn’t bring his hands down, just buries his face deeper into his palms. “I don’t remember doing it, but my dad . . . he saw it happen twice. He says I’ll just suddenly have this blank look in my eyes and my hands will just . . . move. The first time I was in the middle of a home school lesson. The second time . . . I was cooking dinner and nearly burned the house down.” Jane is still flipping through, pausing here and there when she finds a sketch – no matter how small. There is Steve reaching out to a Darcy jumping from . . . what appears to be a cliff; and then Darcy leaning on Thor’s shoulder; later, a man who resembles Thor but taller and more feral looking, wrapped in furs with a sleeping Darcy strapped to his front like a some weird cave man version of a baby bjorn; and, yet another, labeled “The Grey Lady” of a woman who looks like Darcy but older, hood up and eyes closed above a mouth that appears _stitched_ shut. “Do you know if you’re drawing her past, present or future?”

He swallows visibly before bringing his hands down to his knees, refusing to look at either of them. “I . . . Most of them are past, I think. But . . when I look at them, I _feel_ that some are present or near-present and some are future.”

“Do you think you could put them in chronological order?”

“I . . . haven’t thought about it but . . . I can try.”

Natasha watches the pages turn when a full color sketch catches hers and Jane’s eyes. When the page is fully opened, they collectively gasp because there is Darcy’s back as she walks, tote bag slung over one shoulder, her hand reaching for Jane with the other and – between them – Loki raising the dagger just before it is buried in her chest.

***

_And on another_ :

When Darcy wakes, she is on her back in a place where the ground is loose and shifting and the air smells of brine and wood smoke. Her eyes are open but blind – only processing a field of pure white with an occasional shadow moving along the edges that she imagines are wind currents or an impression of leaves or branches overhead. She cannot move – even something as simple as opening her mouth seems mentally taxing.

There is a gaping wound from her right shoulder through her back to the left hip from Surt’s initial _greeting_ , and she’s been bleeding out water and soul steadily since. There is no pain, just the sensation of wetness beneath her body, into her hair and the loose grains she can feel itching her skin. 

She can hear and feel the heat of Gullinbursti’s labored breath brushing and heating the top of her head down to her chin, can smell the animal musk of his hide, the stink of his breath. Knowing he is there at her side, watching over her settles the nettled stress of her current condition if only a small measure. 

Whatever supernatural strength that had been given to survive Surt and the nastiness of . . . basically burying him and his army has apparently left her barely alive; and it occurs to her to ask – if only within the confines of her mind, again but wholly seriously, “ _What am I?_ ”

It scares her, the sudden _knowing_ , the power of making things happen with only a spoken word. She can’t even balance her check book. She wasn’t made for this kind of life or death responsibility!

With a certainty she doesn’t want to examine, Darcy decides she won’t use her remaining water just yet (never mind that she can’t actually move to grasp or pour the water . . . possibly even drink it). She can still think for herself, still make seemingly rational decisions. The body she’s in isn’t too corrupted, she (somehow) knows. (And isn’t that the strangest thing to come to mind. Ever.)

She should have never gone to Muspell.

_But then who would have made it right?_

Darcy closes her blind eyes and wants to cry – the fight and rage drained out of her as effectively as the waters allowing her spirit to remain (somewhat) intact. She wants to leave. She wants to understand what is happening to her. She needs answers. And she’s not going to get them by hopping worlds aimlessly. 

A corner of her mouth kicks up in a sad rendition of her usual smile before it falls back into deadpan when she can feel the weight and claws of a certain raven. He pecks at the straining folds of her cloak, the neckline of her gown, then bites gently at the lobe of one ear. 

She wants desperately to speak, to comfort both Gully and Munnin with a show of well-being, but her limbs and mouth are not cooperating. 

A sharp poke of something large and blunt makes impact with her side, the motion jarring her till her body rolls over, her mouth pressing against wet sand as the cool air hits her back and scalp. When she is settled on her stomach, she wonders what is happening but has neither the energy nor the care to panic. 

“Don' worry yesself, midear. Tis just meh.” 

Darcy whimpers from her throat as her lips purse so tightly they seem to fuse to her teeth. She is not afraid. Gully is nearby, calm and resting his chin against the back of her head. Munnin continues to snap his beak gently along the curve of an ear, tugging the hair at her temples. And . . . impossibly, she knows that sloppy brogue, the coarse but fond tone of it though she hasn’t heard the sound since she was four. _Oldemor_. Her great grand-mother; and a fucking giantess. (The fact that – she knows now - all of the stories she once told her parents, all the “dreams” as they called them, were REAL is too large for her to process at the moment).

The shadows grow dimmer and then there is a forceful pulling and tugging as _Oldemor_ works to remove Darcy’s soaked cloak and ripped up night dress. Her voice squeaks in her throat, trying to warn of the broach keeping her tethered to this plane of existence, but Grid, her _Oldemor_ , seems to know, telling Darcy to hold onto it even as she guides Darcy’s fingers to close about the opal and gold jewelry.

“Ye’ve grown qui’ a bet. Las’ yeh were ‘ere ye was barely taller ‘n meh big toe and wouldna quiet fer nothin’. “ The sound of rustling fabric sounds near Darcy’s forehead even as the white plane of her vision brightens as if registering a soft glow. She wants to say something, anything; but her mouth is still taut over gritting teeth as the smell of earth and salt water become stronger and something scrapes against her side. _Oldemor_ continues blithely. “The grey lady sed yeh would return one dee soon. She gev meh a pail o’ clay, fro’ the roots o’ the Worl’ Tree. Sed teh smooth ‘t over ye wounds but good.”

_The grey lady_ . . . The title is unfamiliar and suspicious. How did some lady know of Darcy’s coming before Darcy did? She is so fucking thoroughly _sick_ of mysteries and questions and seers.

As the weight of the clay settles over her shoulders and back, Darcy closes her eyes and breathes. The smell of the stuff is a strangely familiar comfort, the feel of it is warm against her as the stuff does its magic, weaving and knitting into her water-given flesh. 

Working her throat, Darcy pushes out a hoarse,“Tis but a scratch.”

The woman working a miracle on her back with earth and water laughs, full-bodied and loud though Darcy doubts she would understand the reference. “’T has been a long time tho’ longer still fer ye, Dagny, midear. Ah’m glad teh see yeh again.” 

_Dagny_ , another near-forgotten part of her past. The name Grid had given her the first time her grand-father had brought her to this world (saying that “Darcy” was a meaningless name and difficult to pronounce so Darcy would henceforth be “Dagny”). 

_A new . . . existence. A new purpose. A new name._ Darcy had to bite back a bitter laugh. _A new day._

God, how long had it been that she was standing in the lab with Jane, the sounds of the Avengers returning from a mission sounding down the hall? It seems like an eternity. The then fallen Darcy is a mere memory to the traumatized, near all-knowing Darcy of now. (Dagny?)

Biting her lip, eyelids fluttering against the burn of tears that will not come, Darcy tries again, “Good to hear you too.”

“Give et time, midear. The power teh see will come when ye will.”

But would it? Was everything really as simple as _willing_ things to change? Did that mean she could will herself back into her body on Earth? Did that mean she could go back and stop this from ever happening?

This, Darcy realizes with a sick jolt, is something that she _doesn’t_ know. And even though it worries her, the not knowing, it’s also a relief. It’s a strangely complete reassurance that she has not traversed into some crazy omniscient god-hood.

Grid’s hands seem to grow smaller, smaller even as the force of her movements remains, rhythmic and gentle, rolling Darcy’s shoulders forward and down then pulling them back and up. It’s relaxing in a way that allows Darcy’s thoughts to slow and calm, the ideas there to wash clear.

She wakes again to barely discernable shapes (some that move) in vibrant colors dusted in a reddish haze. Something large, heavy and warm lay nearby – Gullinbursti; and something, vaguely oval shaped, sits against a white-washed wall, darker than any shadow – Munnin. The ground feels different – like well beaten canvas – and smells like salt and unwashed feet. 

Waves crash, muffled, in the distance while something liquid bubbles nearby above the crackle of a well-fed fire. 

The warmth of it is like a barely remembered sunburn on her cheeks. 

“Yer ‘woke again.” It’s more statement than question. Darcy allows herself a smile at the familiarity of such conviction. As a little girl, she had been skittish around Grid – an old woman, tall as a multi-storied town house with a booming voice and straight-forward way. 

Testing her strength, Darcy slowly pushes up off the ground only to roll over to one side. Grid is nothing more than shifting shades of brown and tan topped with silver. “Barely.” Darcy allows her eyes to drift, taking in what few details she can. “How long have I been here?”

“Less than a fortnight. “ A sigh and the sound of metal scraping against metal. “Do’nah worry yerself aboot a thing. Ye need teh rest.” The smell of spiced meat is suddenly flooding her nostrils, something hot and wet stinging her lips. “Now eht.”

Though she cannot feel hunger physically and doubts her ability to metabolize real food, Darcy obediently opens her mouth and chews. The stew is thick and hearty and . . . tasteless in her mouth. She wishes badly it wasn’t, misses the sensations of savory and spice. As she chews, the meat liquefies into globules of mush and the chunks of vegetable become like grains of sand. She swallows, takes another bite, doesn’t complain.

This entire ordeal has taught her to appreciate simple things, simple kindnesses, simple blessings. 

After a few bites, Grid cups the back of Darcy’s head to feed her from the water skin. Even after a few drops, Darcy’s vision becomes just a tad sharper, her body feels just a bit stronger. As the water skin is set down and the bowl again taken up, Darcy asks, “Where is he?”

Grid doesn’t answer but her movements halt, the blurred lines of the giantess’ shrunken body suggesting incredulity. 

Darcy tries again. “Where is _bestefar_?”

“Ye’re in neh condition teh b’ searchin’ ‘im ou’ now, midear.” More stew is stuffed into her mouth. Darcy chews. Quiet and waiting though she doesn’t know for what. Gullinbursti snorts and snuffs in his sleep, the moist warmth of his breath streaming through her hair to the nape of her neck. Munnin ruffles his feathers a bit, her senses taking in the sound more than the motion.

“I know, but I need him. I can’t stay like this.” _If I do, my body will die and I’ll never see Earth or my life there again_.

Grid grunts petulantly. “The grey lady sed mu’ the same.” There is a shifting of cloth and bowl and spoon then water sliding down her throat, cool and welcome as the purity and power of it tingles through her limbs again. “She also mentioned yeh needin’ mah son.”

“Who is the grey lady? I think you said something about her before.”

Grid’s movements halt. The stew no longer bubbles. The fire no longer cracks. Even the slight breeze seems to just _stop_. Darcy would be afraid she had somehow frozen time if she couldn’t feel Gullinbursti’s bristly coat falling and rising against her back as he slept on. As it is, she feels the weight of Grid’s stare, wonders if it is disappointment, shock or something else that colors her face pale like a firelit moon.

“Sh’ es much as yeh are now. Some un who should neveh exist.”

AtRoY

_This is how it becomes complicated_ :

The lab is strewn with sheets of ruled paper sporting doodles and sketches of varying detail and color while Jane, Natasha, Derek, Tony and Clint prowl about, trying to follow the story there. Every now and again Derek will take a picture, stare at it then remove it to another area, fitting it before, after or between an already established plot line.

Natasha can read by his expression that he isn’t satisfied with the layout of the sketches. There’s one picture in particular – The Grey Lady - that defies placement anywhere. (It is also the only one that bears a title). Derek frequently walks over to stare at it unblinkingly before shaking his head and walking away while rubbing his eyes and forehead. The feeling is vocalized by Jane who sometimes joins him only to declare in modulated tones that “It just doesn’t fit.”

Natasha has to agree. They have a beginning – the drawing of Loki stabbing Darcy – followed by about thirty sketches of Darcy in various relations and actions and worlds, ‘ending’ with the picture of Darcy jumping away from Steve over a cliff or into a chasm (it isn’t clear from the limitations of a letter size paper). Derek has been insistent that this hasn’t happened yet – several of the sketches have been given this verdict. And no image yet has proven a strong enough bridge to suggest who or what or when the Grey Lady is.

Tony walks over to the petite scientist and takes the sheet in hand, squints at it, hands it over to Clint and mutters something Natasha doesn’t quite catch.

Jane is pacing again, sometimes running agitated fingers through her hair, sometimes rubbing her still-flat stomach, sometimes aggressively chewing on the end of a pen. Derek is moving more pictures. Tony and Clint are commiserating over the Grey Lady. Natasha watches from her perch atop one of the lab counters while leaning one elbow on the top of a lab oven, listening intently.

“It just doesn’t fit.” This time from Tony and echoed by Clint. Natasha’s ears perk up, but she doesn’t say anything, patient. Something is about to happen. She can feel it in the air. It’s a similar feeling to one that she gets before a gun fight breaks out only not as charged with danger.

Derek is grabbing a grease pen before beginning to sketch on one of the glass walls. “Of course it doesn’t fit. She’s not past or present or future.” His voice is almost sleepy in its cadence, absent of emotion. “She exists outside of time for now.”

Jane approaches him cautiously, eyes watching seemingly random lines become something very much intentional. “What do you mean ‘for now’?”

Derek doesn’t stop drawing, doesn’t look at anything but the lines forming under his hand. “She’s fading. Darcy in all her forms is fading.”

There is an implication there that Natasha pushes to her hind brain to mull on later. Right now, there is a more immediate question; and this time Tony, sounding – to Natasha’s surprise – like a small, scared child, is the one to ask. “Fading until and from what?”

The squeak of the grease pen is loud in the ensuing silence. “Until she is gone from existence.”

***

Days? Weeks? . . . Some time after arriving and recovering much of her strength and vision (though she still has problems seeing things in the distance, similar to how her eyes worked while in her real body), Darcy had taken to standing out on the beach to watch the waves roll in and out and crash upon the stony outcroppings along the nearby moutains, her bare toes dipping to the sand, relishing the ticklish fingers of wind rifling over her face into her hair. 

Gullinbursti stands nearby- sometimes just a few steps away, sometimes brushing against her hip and shoulder, always _there_. Munnin is currently off somewhere doing crow things she has no knowledge of though oft-times he will roost on her shoulder- always the right for some reason.

Maybe birds were creatures of habit like humans were? She didn’t know.

Staying with her great grand-mother had been a good idea. Grid had welcomed her with open arms, nursing her back to something resembling intact, and providing answers to questions Darcy had found herself idly wondering about like, _What’s in there?_ – meaning her mystical non-body. _Tree roots_ , the answer was delivered in Grid’s flat, to-the-point brogue. _Roots?_ Darcy’s already white face would have turned ashen had this body been capable. _The roots o’ Yggdrasil reach inteh all o’ us_ , Grid had countered in her usual brusque, no-nonsense way. 

_Why does my perception of time seem to be wonky?_ Grid had nailed her to the ground with a stare that could make a boulder feel stupid, _Obviousleh, yeh do ‘nah exist within it._

And with that pronouncement, something in Darcy quieted, calmed, and settled as if the puzzle of her thoughts had just needed that piece of information to be complete. She had then decided to simply stay here with Grid until she felt the need to move on to her next task. It had taken shape in her mind’s eye nearly the moment Surt had been taken care of which is why she had ended up here. She had told Gullinbursti to bring her somewhere cold, what she had meant was _Utgard_ , in the hopes of finding her grand-father.

Gully had always been reliably astute when it came to her whims. It had been that way since she was an – apparently – universe-trotting little girl.

Despite missing him, Darcy can’t bring herself to be displeased. She has reconnected with her great grand-mother (a fucking GIANTESS – _If my grand-father is half-giant and I’m what? 1/8th giant, how the shit am I so vertically challenged?_ Grid’s withering look discouraged any further questions that time); gained an extended family (she couldn’t help inwardly chortling over Thor being her great-uncle) and validation for her personal history that she had been secretly yearning for (all those times her parents dismissed her stories as dreams and imagination when she had actually lived them – seen giants and elves and met a “pig” made out of gold); and – most importantly - a completely safe place to land in the midst of her current chaos.

She remembers this place from when she was a very small child though she can’t quite remember how she would get there, just that her grand-father would show up randomly while she was alone – usually outside near the wooded area of her backyard – and whisk her away for a while. He would always return her, hours later, and she would try to explain to her parents where she had been. 

Even now, years later, she feels more centered here, on this beach at the edge of Jotun country with its line of huts and smoke stacks and rolling salty waves. “Hey Grid?”

The giantess is huge with a broad musculature and gray-haired, striking in leathers and bronze plate even while boiling water for laundry. “What question hants yeh no’, midear?” She sighs as she speaks. Darcy asks many questions, not all of them with ready answers. 

“I have this hunch. The grey lady looks like me, doesn’t she?” The real question knocking around her mind is actually _The grey lady **is** me, isn’t she?_ But Darcy isn’t quite ready to stare the answer to that one in the face. The idea that she may be able to travel through time, that there are multiple versions of her running around and wreaking havoc, isn’t as awesome sounding as it would have been on Midgard. Thinking of the possibilities now only fill her with a dark sense of dread.

Grid grunts and then there is the splash and bubble of clothes being dropped and stirred into the gigantic cauldron. “Do nah’ waste yer breath on questions yeh alreadeh know the answer teh.”

Darcy lowers her gaze to contemplate one palm, trying to imagine the machination of plant-work joints suspending in holy water. _Yggdrasil_. It is an instinctive fact. Her body had come from one of the root springs. It follows the World Tree would lend her the structure to do the necessary work to fix the colossal problem of her own dual existence.

Her hand comes up to rub plaintively at her forehead. She knows if she were capable of having a headache, one would be blooming right about now. “I have to go.”

The air currents shift, Darcy’s hair flutters softly. Grid is nodding behind her. “Yeh’ll return? Wi’ yer grand-dah?”

It’s the first time she’s heard Grid take that tone – the worry painting the sound of her voice with the hush of ebbing tides. Darcy understands the sentiment. They are both long-lost family to each other and have forged a strengthened bond over the days of her stay here on the edges of Utgard. But more, Grid was Darcy’s caretaker, the one who mended her torn skin and replenished the waters that gave her shape – only a portion of which was Urd’s water (her waterpouch had run out rather quickly), the rest from the sea. Darcy theorizes that is why her vision isn’t particularly perfect anymore. 

Darcy turns and smiles for her, “I’ll do you one better. Once I have my body back (she refused to believe the day wouldn’t come though it’s the only future tidbit blocked from her now), I’ll get Heimdall to beam me back up here to enjoy your stew and company.”

Grid grunts and slaps the pot of boiling clothes with a paddle as long as a truck and ten fingers thick. “Come back an’ bring yer _far, mor_ and _bror_ wi’ yeh. This famileh has been too long torn by meh son’s stupiditeh.”

“You’ve got it, _Oldemor_.” She says it recklessly though still sincere. There is an awareness that any misstep in the tasks ahead of her may maroon her spirit here for eternity while her body dies on Midgard. 

The old giantess grins, the shadows in the sea blue of her eyes lightening for a moment with the promise. “Beh careful, mah Dagneh. The journeh ahead is nah wi’out danger.”

Darcy knows this with a certainty bordering on absolution. Her expression turns grim without conscious thought or direction. “Everything will be as it is supposed to be.” 

It’s another promise. This one she is positive she will keep.

“Then get on wit’ yeh.”

Trying another smile, Darcy bends to grab the empty water skin as well as a bag of heavy clay – the material Grid had massaged into her damaged body to mend it. The stuff had been gathered from the roots of Yggrasil, a gift from the Grey Lady. The clay is slung across her body while the water skin is tied to a heavy thick belt Grid had cut from a piece of rawhide. 

She taps Baldr’s opal broach stationed just below her throat, touches Hlin’s cuff at her wrist and counts the two remaining knives, pulls the cloak a little closer to her body even as she breathes what she remembers of Nanna’s blessing, digging the heels of her boots into the sand. Gully mouths at her hand, and she pats his snout in reassurance. 

A caw in the distance has Darcy turning her head to face the small breeze. The black flying body of a crow – slightly smaller than the familiar heft of Munnin – appears to alight on top of her head, talons digging into her hair and scraping the tender scalp. 

“I can’t feel pain, dude; but there’s nothing under that thin veneer but water that I need so watch the claws.” Immediately, the new crow – _Huginn_ , Darcy ventures – settles into a sit atop her head, folding his little legs beneath his body, as if her hair is a particularly comfortable nest. She wants to laugh and does chuckle a little. “Don’t get too comfortable, Hugh-man. It’s gonna be cold where we’re going. Like, primordial even.”

Her eyes scan the horizon one more time, but there is no sign of Munnin. She shrugs to herself. He’ll catch up. 

Her lips purse into a blank expression. Altered as she is (or maybe this is what she always was, naturally, meant to be), she knows a portal isn’t needed. She has the ability to get where she wants to go with just a thought. Of course, knowing and doing are two different things when untried. 

_Jane would be able to figure it out and explain it to me. God, I miss her_ . . . She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. Her fingers grasp onto Gully’s hide.

With one last wave good-bye-for-now to her Jotun great grand-mother, Darcy looks ahead as she walks resolutely toward and into the surf, Gullinbursti marching just as determinedly at her side. She doesn’t even notice as her body, as well as those of her companions, fades away.

AtRoY

_And this is how connections are finally made_ :

_The Captain of America is doing it again_ , Hogun thinks as he watches with blooming concern. 

They had been traveling for two days toward the nearest portal to Alfheim, though Frey had offered to the faster option of his folding ship, Skidbladnir. It was Freya who had insisted they travel by foot and horse for reasons that only Hogun could truly understand. Foresight is often a harsh and unmoving taskmaster.

In this situation in particular, one wrong action would create a possibly Ragnarok level reaction. 

During the journey, Hogun has felt a nudging intuition to watch the Midgardian called Steve, though for what purpose, he hasn’t surmised. The cursory surveillance of two days has not yielded much in the way of clues; however, it is clear that the good Captain is paradoxically hyper-focused and completely distracted all at once. And then there is the repeated gesture causing his worry.

The Captain touches a hand to the center of his chest- above the burnished leather armor there – then rubs his fingertips against the spot. 

Concerned (and curious), Hogun draws his horse next to their Midgardian friend who is currently leading his own seat. “What ails you Captain?” The last thing they need is for one of their number to become beset by illness or death. The visions are solid in their assertion of the party needed to bring hope to the Lady Darcy.

The Captain’s presence is wholly essential to preclude catastrophe.

The offending hand lowers, put to the task of holding the ribbons, testing the bit. “Nothing. Just lost in thought.”

Hogun decides he does not need the gift of Seid to know the meaning of the Captain’s upset. “The Lady Darcy will be heading to Alfheim. You have my word that it will be so. Cousin Freya’s word as well should you bear me a measure of distrust.”

The Captain sighs, steps dragging a tad sluggish, as if more than armor and the spectre of a lost comrade weighs down upon his shoulders. “It’s not that. I don’t really understand all of this, but I don’t distrust you or Freya. Darcy told me she would meet us at Freya’s house. I’m just hoping we’re not moving in the wrong direction.” 

Hogun’s gaze narrows, takes note of the shape of shadows dancing within dark blue eyes. “I assure you, Captain, that reunion with the Lady is imminent. When she spoke of meeting with our party at my cousin’s home she wholly believed such design to be true and inevitable. However, there are factors only recently come to light. Alfheim is the great in-between and of special significance to a player that has yet to be revealed.”

“In other words, she’s not going to Alfheim of her own free will. Someone’s going to bring her there.”

A sharp sort of sardonic smirk marks Hogun’s face. “Indeed. Fear not, Captain. The one to return the Lady to us is a brother-in-arms, loyal and reliable. She shall be safe and cared for in his company.”

The Captain’s nods as his expression becomes closed, almost stony with brows squared above shuttered eyes and a tight mouth. 

Hogun quiets and chooses to keep his own council despite the small wondering if Thor knows. The love of others is simply not his interest or business.

***

Astrid walks between thick panes of double reinforced glass decorated in grease pen and paint of varying colors. Her steps are slow. She feels pale and weak and like her heart is about to beat out of her chest as her son’s work is unveiled with every foot fall, every square inch she advances. 

Mr. Stark – _my father was Mr. Stark, call me Tony_ – is walking ahead, neck visibly stiff and hands digging deeply into his pockets. She rubs at her forehead, the headache there has been her ever-present companion since her daughter became lost and everything she thought she knew was proven screwed up backwards.

She is led through a door that looks like all the others – sliding panels of transparent glass that seem too flimsy for such a high profile place with such high profile people who gamble with their lives. 

It’s sobering, the knowledge that her beautiful, brilliant Darcy had made a home in the midst of this world so far removed from what Astrid accepts as normal.

In this room – a lab (smelling of Poptarts and ozone) by the alien-looking equipment, numerous read-outs, and the bent and sleeping form of Jane Foster nearby – a hundred of her son’s sketches are taped up in a story board type of ordered chaos (featuring Darcy, assorted other characters (such as Thor and Captain America) and – fantastic – locales including wolves and crows and giants and elves and pixies and dwarves and lush meadows with grazing unicorns and mountains that look like men screaming and an imposing figure pointing a spear to Darcy’s throat), culminating in a window sketch in three shades of grease pencil, large as the Hulk and just as destructive: Darcy, seemingly asleep, surrounded by a swirling school of Anaconda-sized snakes.

Astrid steps back from it, a hand to her mouth. 

Tony is fidgeting beside her, obviously at a loss of how to handle her upset. She realizes with no small measure of guilt that she cannot find an ounce in her to care about assuring him. “Why are you showing me this?”

“We need to know where she is.”

_Isn’t she in Asgard?_ That’s what they had told her – as unbelievable as that discussion had been, even after meeting Thor a handful of times previously. “I’m not sure how you suppose I would know when you don’t.”

Tony’s jittering moves from hands to mouth, his teeth clicking as his pointer fingers meet, pressing against his lips, eyes skittering to glance sidelong. “Darcy visited some of us in dreams . . . Has she contacted you at all?”

Without being invited, Astrid pulls a stool out from below the wall-to-wall counter and sits – slowly, gingerly, feeling her age and the stress ranging through every muscle and bone, acknowledging it. Reveling really. Her breath whistles out between her teeth as her eyes return tiredly to the tableau drafted across the glass. 

Her eyes sting and burn but she has no more tears to cry. “No. Or at least, I don’t remember if she did.” Sleep hasn’t been coming easily, and when it does, she is generally so exhausted there is no energy for dreams. (A part of her feels she has no right to rest until Darcy is well and whole again.)

The man before her – a superhero . . . yet as human as she is, flawed with the same frailties – sighs heavily, runs a hand through his already ruffled hair. She wonders why he even bothered to style it this morning. She can appreciate he – and the other Avengers – are at least half as worried as she is. 

“It was a long-shot, but we had hoped – “ He stops himself, looks around the lab as if seeing it for the first time, his gaze lingering on Jane’s petite figure. Astrid wonders if the younger woman, Darcy’s best friend, is taking care of herself, makes a mental note to take the time to visit – perhaps with a casserole and other vittles in tow.

Astrid swallows down the familiar taste and grit of disappointment, uncaring as to the source, and forces a smile, not knowing if it will be seen. “I’m sorry.” It’s not the first time she has said it since she was told of Darcy’s condition. She prays it daily, whispers it hourly to ears that can no longer hear, thinks it constantly. “Thank you, Tony . . . all of you . . . for the work your team is doing to bring Darcy back. I can’t tell you how appreciative we are.”

Mr. Stark – Tony – _Ironman_ – for all his brash, doesn’t seem prepared to accept her gratitude. His tongue clucks into the silence as he rubs the back of his neck, stares at something in the distance rather than her face. She has the sudden urge to hug him though he reads as the type to be uncomfortable with unsolicited affection. (Even if she remembers Darcy saying something to the effect of _He’d probably rather get shot in the dick than accept even a fucking handshake._ )

He’s sweating visibly as he tightly says, “I wish we could do more.”

This time, her smile is real and tinged with a warmth that is spreading from her chest. “I know you will.”

He offers to walk her out. She hops off the stool, pushes it back into place below the wall-to-wall counter then turns and contemplates the portrait of Darcy and snakes just a moment more. She takes in the flowing cloak and jeweled broach, the chaotic hair hiding her face, the flailing hands and kicking feet. _She’s under water_ . . . There, the snakes, forming a twisting circle – _a barrier_? – around her, their collective maws open or closed with a tease of fang. Now, Darcy’s body – the muscles of one visible arm shaded and lined to indicate rigidity, her pose that of a fetus in the womb – _Defensive? Unconscious?_ – No.

Astrid moves closer to the glass, lays a hand against it, unmindful of smudges. She is barely alert to Tony calling her name. 

Darcy’s hands are clasped around the broach, a hard clasp . . . pinched features clouding her expression. _She looks cold._ It sounds right. It feels right.

“She’s somewhere cold.” Astrid staggers back to brace herself against the counter, sit back down on the stool she had vacated moments ago. She feels at once shaky and scared but also euphoric, her every sense seeming to explode with strength and newness. Colors are brighter. Sights are more detailed. The smell of pizza and poptarts fogged over with Febreeze and old gym socks greets her nose. 

Tony breathes audibly beneath the music pumping through the room speakers and Jane’s soft snoring. “Somewhere cold?”

She nods slowly, her gut heavy and stiff like ice. “Very cold.” 

It feels like the very worst of understatements.

***

_Niflheim._

The second they appear on the Mist World, Darcy is beset by a cold so complete, it becomes meaningless. There are no words to describe it (except maybe “Jesus Fucking Christ!!!!” which she shouts (or tries to through breathlessness and frozen vocal cords) without preamble, though she imagines this is what something doused in liquid nitrogen might feel like. (Temperature, apparently, is a weakness for her.) 

There is no living thing, no animal nor flora. Light comes in the form of multiple cool blue too-distant stars, the way ahead marred by thick shadows thrown by mountainous glaciers on all sides. The wind is not strong but it feels like a large knife flaying then stitching her back together. In that bare second, her hair is drenched and frozen to her clothes, her eyes dry out and feel too large in their sockets – completely blind (again, damn it) – and her limbs become stiff – no better than rusted hinges. 

Her saving grace is Gullinbursti who seems – largely – unaffected, her hands burying into his coat to seek out the warm hide beneath. Meanwhile, Huginn squawks and attempts to fly only to flutter then drop like a small anvil to the permafrost. Darcy – carefully – and with no small difficulty takes him up, covers him with her cloak (which tries to billow around them) and focuses on the fast little heart beat pounding against the webbing between her thumb and forefinger lashed against the front of his feathered neck.

She can’t see much but knows they are out in the open, the sensation of exposure is too strong and the intuition of expanse too broad. Her newly minted knowledge draws a mind picture of the terrain. There are glaciers nearby that are as tall and substantial as mountains; but she wants to steer clear of them. She’s looking for a meeting of rivers and a swirling pool, not blocked ice. (The possibility of rousing the frost giants in the area is also a deterrent.)

Bending against the wind, she urges Gullinbursti ahead, never losing her grip on him (but wishing she had had the forethought to bring a rope or something to tie them together as she doesn’t know when her hands will go completely numb). They make slow progress even as she feels rather than sees the sweeping clouds of discharged ice spray shaved and thrown by the buffeting gusts across the flats.

The air smells like the purest breath, winter and creation. 

She stumbles a bit when Gully rears back. They aren’t three anymore. No, there is a contingent of eleven nearby. 

Her entire body is shuddering violently, her feet are numb and heavy. She’s in no condition or mood for another battle. 

Distantly, she wishes Steve were here. The few times she spent the night with him in his bed, he was like a space heater set to high. 

She can’t see save for a circle of shadows. Close to the ground. Shapes roughly the size of horses, monochrome and animal - obviously strong for having no trouble against the barren cold. Darcy feels her stomach dropping to her legs into her toes, so weary and sick with it, she suddenly doesn’t know how she can go on like this. There is a constant dual-opposing pull at once urging her away from her natural life and boisterous personality and pointing her toward this new impossible being born from her murder, knowing and powerful and serious and sad for it. 

She had sworn to herself there would be no more fear or running from her own destiny. That promise doesn’t mean she wants to walk away from her humanity.

Gully steps back into her, his large body butting up against her in the most fragrant of ways (thankfully her nose is too dead to care). He is ready – as he was on Muspell – to fight on her behalf, to defend and die if necessary, to protect her. 

He’s been that way since she was a child, she remembers.

The wind is a violent howl in her ears but she can hear the warning growls of the wolf pack accosting them even from this distance, can see – in her mind’s eye – the scarred over eye of the leader. _Freki again. Fucking fake!Odin with his fucking menagerie of fucking predators._ She pats Huginn, a small apology.

She doesn’t miss the fact that the wolves were waiting for her arrival much the same way Surt seemed to seek her out. Still, she is somewhat more optimistic that this encounter will go if not pleasantly then at least quieter with less destruction and personal harm.

Unabashedly using Gullinbursi’s bulk as a wall against the wind for as long as possible, Darcy bows her head, her loose hair repeated tearing away from her to fly before refreezing onto her skin or clothes, bits of ice stinging her cheeks. She doesn’t have time to be surprised by the shimmering light swirling about the hem of Baldr’s cloak, can’t really react as the glow climbs up the material to her neck until her entire being shines like a beacon.

There has to be a reason for it, the light and the warmth that goes with it, heating her body from nose to toes. _Baldr’s light_. This is Baldr’s blessing.

_It’s okay, G_. She mouths the words as best she can (which isn’t much). The air is too dry and cold to produce much sound, her lips only just unfrozen and too stiff to form much more than a tight frown. Her free hand smooths his coat for good measure before stepping away and in front.

She has the sense that this is more than a meeting of historic adversaries, almost like the meeting of warring factions, two kings facing each other on an equal birth to discuss terms of peace. Her wooden soles aren’t made for treading on ice and she nearly slips to her ass three times before she decides to make her stand half way between – alone but as tall as she can be, hair wet and tangled but flying like a living thing despite the weight of ice beads, her cloak billowing wildly about her and Huginn but warm and glowing like an oversized candle.

Like a lovely, welcoming fire.

The growling becomes a high-pitched whine as Freki comes forward to meet her, his ruined eye seeming to wink at her – the only color visible, a vibrant, violent pink across his gray and blue muzzle.

It doesn’t escape her notice that his teeth are in line with her throat or that he is easily twice her size with claws as thick and sharp as knives. But she has the sense he isn’t a danger to her. They stare at each other through the cold wind, ice and snow drifts like white ribbons smoothing the turbulent air between them. 

He huffs a cloud of breath, ears shifting and nostrils flaring before he lowers to his hind legs in a sedate sit.

_Surrender._

As if they really were at war or something.

The wind churns between them, picking up speed, and she’s going frost blind again. Freki’s brother Geri lowers his belly to the ice. The other wolves follow suit. Freki bows his massive head.

Darcy feels it is an apology. _I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I attacked your guard. I’m sorry I hurt you._ He was only doing as he was told by the person he trusted most. _Odin. Or more accurately Not!Odin._

She touches the cuff with its knives and makes a decision. She begins to walk, cutting the distance between them, determined and unafraid – shoulders back and head held high even though her entire body feels it’s a Darcy-shaped ice cube with dried clay and wet cheese cloth wrapped tightly around it, kneels at Freki’s paws.

The big wolf whimpers, lowers his body to her lap (as much of him as can fit) and she bends over him protectively – as if he’s the one needing coverage and warmth. She whispers in his ear. He breathes in her scent. 

They have each found an ally.

Staying where they are – in the open – is not an option. Darcy is fairly certain she won’t die from the cold, but the others of their number can (whether or not they seem unaffected). She sends Gully – with Huginn and the wolf pack – to find shelter until she completes her current mission. 

Freki mouths her cloak for several moments before they part, tugging and whining insistently that she come with the furred and feathered of their group; but she won’t have it, orders him to let her go.

She remembers asking Hogun who is in charge. It is the worst cosmic joke imaginable to her that the answer to that question now lies with herself. Responsibility isn’t something she is afraid of. It’s _leading_ that freaks her the fuck out (which is why she has such mad respect for the people she works with on a daily basis). 

Being a leader implies responsibility not only for oneself but for the collective actions and lives of the ‘team’, potentially the world and global populace (if you’re an Avenger). In Darcy’s case, she feels the drive and anguish of her new role as a delivery agent of fate – destiny – _pick your poison_ – as a huge unwanted burden. Before, everything she did or said left a mark only on herself and the people closest to her (or so she believed). Now, she’s more than a little aware entire universes could collapse if she makes one seemingly insignificant error. 

She can see it behind her eyes. All the possibilities. All the disastrous accidents.

And for all of that, her own future is a dark, blurred thing that _taunts_. It’s only a little less frightening than the idea she could kill this entire star system simply by breathing the wrong way or stepping in the wrong spot.

As she muses to keep her mind from the insidious mental worm that she has _no fucking clue what she’s doing_ , the trek is about as difficult as she imagined it would be. The wind gets rougher – seeming to come from every direction at once with force comparable to a mack truck going 100mph. She holds the cloak to her face during the worst of it, trying to defrost her eyes – the rest (nose, mouth, eyebrows, cheeks) aren’t nearly as necessary). Her body is still warm from Baldr’s blessing (she makes a very large, neon, glittery mental note to give him a huge thank you gift when this is all over). Her boots slip and slide at times causing a litany of falls. 

She’s not hurt. Thankfully her skin remains intact. Worried, she takes to reaching one hand to her back every few minutes to feel the ridge that remains of her mortal wound at Surt’s hands – a lingering reminder (in addition to her faltering eyesight) that this body is no longer the pure, flawless thing Baldr drew out of Urd’s Well. 

Drawing the cloak even tighter against her, she wonders blithely if the glowing will stop anytime soon or if the heat will go away along with the light. She tries not to think about all the possibilities filtering through her mental picture box, particularly the ones advertising her failure or death (and would it really be death? Maybe she’s already dead and this is all just one shitty fever dream before reaching her ultimate destination in paradise or Hell?)

The alternative, that this is all very real and she really is a Norn now, scares her more than an eternity of her immortal soul being bar-b-qued. 

The wind begins to calm somewhat as the hours? Minutes? _Oh who the shit cares anymore_ , pass. Her steps never cease in their forward glide. She never takes a break, only spares a moment to wonder if her animal troops reached safety. (And isn’t it just the biggest bitch of bitchdom that for all her new knowledge, she is more uncertain of everything. It’s positively madness inducing.)

She can see a dark blue ribbon – thin and meandering – cutting through the glacier ice a distance ahead if she squints. Fervently, she hopes it’s the Elivagar. 

Hope, it seems – finally, is on her side (unless her hope or thoughts are just making things happen . . . she’s not sure if that’s the case. God or whoever help _everyone and everything_ ).

Interminable minutes(?) later she is standing at the edge of an impossibly rushing river. She watches the churning water with something akin to dread, a bad feeling settling in her stomach like writhing snakes. Her gaze follows the line of the dark, strangely opalescent waters from a break in the nearby towering glacier and out to the flats before it disappears into the darkness of a –basically – unlit planet. 

She knows she is being watched. 

Sighing, she straightens and resolutely begins walking again – a little faster now, following the river upstream, taking note of the hot steam and the occasional hiss of water hitting permafrost. Mostly it just sounds like the base of a waterfall crashing against rock and more water. It smells like sea salt, earthy minerals and acid. Feels like drowning.

Darcy tries not to think about it or anything else . . . except to wish that Bruce were there with his calming tea or Jane, so that she could explain what the fuck was going on and how any of it tied to actual science. _Anyone or anything familiar really_.

At this point, she wouldn’t mind camping out with Nick Fury, and he scared the living piss out of her on a very primal level (there was just too much kickass and awesome pressurized to explosive levels when he was in the room). Or ya know, her last (official) ex-boyfriend who was – for lack of a better word – a dickhead.

Anyone or anything to keep her from thinking anymore. 

Eventually, she hears a distinct roar above the whistle of the wind, sees several breaks in the ice flat, though she can’t quite comprehend what those breaks entail. When she gets closer, she sees another river – this one more sedate and covered over with small icebergs - converging with the hot one she follows into a large whirlpool – roughly the size of a mid-size lake. 

“My ocean.” It’s mouthed more than spoken – her insides still thawing inside the heated cloak, a little whisper against the raging, spewing vortex before her. She’s been here before, a long time ago, wrapped up in furs that smelled of dirt and leather. Her hands had been impossibly small then and awkward in their movements. Larger hands had taken hers and dipped them into the whirlpool, molded them into a cup . . . 

Touching the opal broach at her throat, absently, she visually traces the two rivers: the Elivagar. _Finally_. Though she isn’t quite sure which one she needs to drink from, and she’s strangely leery about filling her water skin with the combination and tainting the scant drops of holy water that might still cling there.

She knew first hand – by her sight, by the ruin of her back – that the purity of Urd’s water is a gift and one that should not be squandered recklessly. 

Her mouth flattens into a purse as she decides. There is still someone watching. She can feel the prickle of awareness just behind her eyes and can just see the shadow beyond her shoulder. Even the hem of her cloak presses a little closer to her, as if there are invisible bodies crowding her among the arctic expanse.

Darcy isn’t afraid.

The wind begins to buffet again, hitting the back of her head with force and propels her slightly forward even as she adjusts her stance and the distribution of weight. Keeping her footing is a struggle. Finally, she moves forward, careful of her steps and the wind pushing her and the eyes watching from where ever. 

The whirlpool is large and chaotic. Water spray mists the surface onto the uneven bank. It’s obvious the hungry maelstrom has sucked in quite a bit of iced-land over time (yet still oddly contained). The air here is warmer though the bank ice seems impervious to the obviously melting temperature. The unexpected dichotomy makes her feel strangely _maternal_ . . . or at least what she imagines motherly feelings to be.

Kneeling, she grounds herself in the feel of ice beneath her knees and shins, bleeding through even the warmth of Baldr’s blessing, as her hands reach out shaking. Her fingertips are kissed by the spray. 

Sweat – unbelievably – tickles the back of her neck even as her hair is tossed into an even worse tangle.

Water has just met skin when the maelstrom erupts and a great bulk winds around her body. She doesn’t even have time to scream as she’s pulled into the vortex.

***

He moves slowly, with efficiency and forethought, particularly careful in placing his left foot softly upon the ice. Ever Silent. Nothing is left to chance. All probabilities accounted for. Each action is thoroughly planned and executed. There is no time for words. There are no words strong enough to grace his tongue. There are no miracles or nightmares shocking enough to stop him.

Some call him reliable. Others fearfully whispered his name as a punisher. He prefers to think of himself as _vengefully_ steadfast. Particularly on the matter of kin and chosen. His sword is a familiar comfort at his side, his shield a welcome weight at his back. Ever ready to meet out justice.

His beard is stiff with ice as his furs stir in the unforgiving chaos of Niflheim’s freezing winds. Unaffected, he edges along Svol nearing Hvergelmir, leaving no tracks.

He smells more than sees his quarry, an aroma with notes of his mother’s stew – wild onion and thyme, sea breeze and pine. Soon he sees her form, stooped over the edge of Hvergelmir, and his heart drops to his knees.

She is older now, bigger but still very, very small; and he can’t help but remember the last time she had come here, barely tall enough to reach him mid-shin. He had been nearer her then, just at her side, to guard against the whirling spring’s inhabitants (thankfully, Nidhogg had been absent as he seems to be today as well). He had taken her up onto his shoulders when they stirred, took her from “her ocean,” unmoved by baby tears flushing over baby cheeks. 

He smiles to himself, calming slightly when he detects no malice in the air. Her hair is still wood dark with a subtle curl, so unlike his daughter’s autumn red. He wants desperately to see her eyes, the no-doubt changed shape of her face. _His grand-daughter_.

She is stillness in the midst of violence, the mark of his brother lightening her cloak and weaving into her hair, illuminating the line of her cheek. So pale. Palest white against the dark of her hair and the shadow of the water.

The wind changes, suddenly smells hungry. He quickens his step, though still careful, closing the gap. It’s futile. He knows he will be too late. 

The misleading shimmer of a blue tail snakes out with the speed and force of a whip and then she is vanished into the depths of the drowning current. 

He runs, taking the distance in a mere handful of strides – not so careful now, his eyes focused on the course of the swirl. Watching. Waiting. _Patient_. She cannot drown. She doesn’t need air the way he does. The Grey Lady had said as much when she appeared before him; and she wears his grand-daughter’s face.

Calming his breath, his heart, he sees her. She is huddled deep and close like a babe in the womb, hands frigidly clasped at her chin, as the spring snakes circle around her, driving her down into the darkness below. If the cold is not paralyzing her, he thinks, she must not be able to discern which way is up. He must act quickly if he is to fish her out safely.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he strips himself of his pack and weapons, his clothes, his undergarments, his boots and dives straight into the rushing water. He grabs the tail of the nearest snake and wrestles it into submission without much difficulty. It swims away into the yawning darkness below. The second takes a bite of his arm. He crushes the snake’s skull. The third wraps around the girl, jaws opening in a clear threat. He merely presents his brow, swims against the current at a slant and grabs the serpent’s gills, unmoved by the dagger sharp teeth and the swishing, lethal tail. The snake struggles, unwinding from the prey, from his goal. But he doesn’t give up his grip, doesn’t stop pulling until the flesh explodes beneath his hands and the snake is taken by the water, drowning in its blood. 

Strong strokes bring him to his _barnebarn_ , his _Dagny_. He would know here anywhere, anytime. They were blood and bone, calling to one another through the branches of Yggdrasil. Her hair is a riot around her face and her eyes are closed against the deluge of water and snake.

More are coming. He can hear their shrieks below, distorted by the tide flow; and while he knows he can take them without much effort, he does not know how his little Darcy fares and that drives him to the surface, his course as careful and planned as his expedition here. 

They break the surface, and her head falls first back against his shoulder then forward again into the water, her body completely slack. He anchors himself to the surface ice with one arm, hauls Darcy to lay upon it with the other – head first then shoulders and hips and feet. She never moves her hands from their clasp at her neck. He wonders idly if she is frozen in that pose.

The swim and fight has not weakened him. He pushes himself out, stands and carries his _barnebarn_ a safe distance, rolls her up into his furs before donning his undergarments and clothes and boots. His sword and shield are belted and locked back into place before he crouches next to her and pats her face – once, twice. Nothing. She does not seem to be waking soon. 

Silently, he digs through his pack. He wraps a quick bandage about his arm which still bleeds. He then takes his camping sheet and tears the material into strips, tying them together to create a ligature. With precise, intentional movements, he takes up his bundled grand-daughter and secures her to his chest in a makeshift sling before taking up his pack and moving toward the nearest port.

He’ll have to bypass Helheim, have to go the long way. In the meantime, his furs and his body will have to provide warmth and succor until he can deliver her to Alfheim. The Light elves will be able to purify what has been corrupted. 

A cold hand touches his cheek and he looks down. Darcy’s face is buried in his chest yet she reaches out. Her voice is nearly taken by the wind but it is clear, “F-f-find G-g-gulli-n—b-b-brrrsti.”

She sleeps a little sounder then, as If – even while in immortal peril – she worried after the boar. Vidar smiles gently down on her though she can’t see it.

His dear girl has a loyal heart. She will no doubt be relieved to be reunited with her Onkle Thor, soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments. I'm even okay with comments that ask me when the next chapter will be, so - just a head's up - the next chapter will be posted as soon as I'm done writing it. I'm an adult with a child. I work full-time and then spend nearly all the rest of my time chauffeuring said child around to his various after-school activities. I write when I can. Please be patient with me, even if it takes nearly a year ^_^
> 
> Next chapter will feature the reunion you've all been waiting for . . . but will it be as pleasant as Darcy and you - gentle reader - have been imagining?
> 
> And now, here's your mythology notes:
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> Mythology notes:
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> Freki – one of Odin’s wolves. His name means “The Greedy One”
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> Brisingamen – Freya’s golden necklace or torc, forged by dwarves
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> Frigga’s promise – In mythology, Frigga – as a seer of men’s deaths – decided never to reveal her visions.
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> The Clay from the World Tree – Per myth, the Norns gather clay from the base of Yggdrasil and spread it upon the roots to prevent the tree from rotting.
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> Oldemor – great grand-mother in Norwegian
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> Grid – In myth she is a giantess that Odin took as a lover and together they had Vidar. In the Marvel universe, she became a storm giant. I placed her near the sea for that purpose ^_^
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> Dagny – Means “new day” in Norwegian. This is a nickname Grid gave to Darcy when she was a little girl. It was nor is meant to be a new name.
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> Bestefar – Grand-father in Norwegian
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> Jotun/Utgard – In the sources I’ve come across, there is a theory that Jotunheim is actually any place that giants dwell. In myth this is usually near the seas (thought not always) which is why I placed Utgard (a mythic stronghold of the giants) near the sea and since Utgard means “Outlying” I made it into a beach ^_^
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> Far, mor, bror – Father, Mother, Brother in Norwegian
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> Huginn – one of Odin’s two ravens that scour the Nine Realms in the morning and whisper their reports in Odin’s ears. His name means “Thought”
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> Skidbladnir – Frey’s ship which folds like a napkin and fits in his pocket, created by the dwarves
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> Niflheim – The extreme opposite of Muspell, Niflheim is the “world of mist/fog” and is described as being primordially cold, dark, misty and icy. It is the home of the Elivagar and Helheim.
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> Geri – The second of Odin’s wolves and Freki’s brother, his name means “the ravenous”
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> Norn – The destiny goddesses of Norse mythology. Usually only three are named: Urd, Skuld and Verdandi (and even these may have been titles rather than names); however, several sources have implied that there were many Norns governing the fates of human beings. And so this story was born! 
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> Elivagar – Eleven rivers that existed at the birth of the universe. In myth, they are actually venomous; but I’ve made the waters almost harmless here. The named rivers are Svöl, Gunnthrá, Fjörm, Fimbulthul, Slidr, Hríd, Sylgr, Ylgr, Víd, Leiptr and Gjöll (which is closest to Helheim). 
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> Hvergelmir – the well spring from which the Elivagar come from and is also directly under one of the three roots of Yggdrasil. Some sources describe it as a whirlpool full of snakes (and Nidhogg) which I’ve used here.
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> Nidhogg – A dragon that gnaws on the roots of Yggdrasil and eats the corpses of the dead.
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> Barnebarn – Grand-child in Norwegian
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> Vidar - son of the giantess Grid and Odin also one of the younger gods and a survivor of Ragnarok. He's know as a god associated with vengeance and silence (some sources say this probably had to the do with silence of coming battle or silence after battle (i.e. death)). He has a house and its interior is a vast garden and is also associated with traveling or sitting in fields. One of his shoes (in this fic it's the left) is huge and made of all the leather scraps cast off from shoes made in Midgard - other myths have it made of metal. Either way, he's destined to fight and kill the great wolf Fenrir during Ragnarok by placing his huge shoe into the wolf's mouth and breaking its jaw. In the comics, Vidar is 10 ft tall and only ventures in Asgard once to get information and restitution for the slaying of his wife and few know of his existence. He is also one of the strongest Asgardians - second only to Thor.
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> Onkle – Uncle in Norwegian


End file.
